


The Witcher Soldier: Triggers

by AvoidingAverage



Series: The Winter Soldier AU [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Geralt, BAMF Jaskier, Badass Jaskier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Feral Behavior, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier Remembers, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Multiple Personalities, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sort Of, Whump, Winter Soldier AU, Winter Soldier Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: "Do you know me?" Geralt asked quietly, trying not to flinch when Jaskier's eyes met his."You're the Witcher.  I heard the songs about you."---------------------Geralt searches for any sign of Jaskier in Stregobor's Soldier as he hunts down the man he loved.  But he isn't the only person hunting for the lost bard...**New Name, Same Story**
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Winter Soldier AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693594
Comments: 486
Kudos: 1401





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's here!! The first chapter of the next part of the Winter Soldier.
> 
> To preface, I will not be using the canon Civil War timeline from Marvel. Mostly because I hate how they treated the Stucky pairing and because the characters don't mesh with the Witcher universe. There will still be several iconic scenes and dramatic moments to look forward to though.
> 
> And, as always, plenty of angst.

It’s been 152 days since Jaskier disappeared.

One hundred and fifty two nights where Geralt went to sleep knowing he had failed to bring Jaskier back from Stregobor’s magic. One hundred and fifty two days of chasing every lead and rumor of a man who was a ghost of the bard he’d once been. On darker days, Geralt reminded himself that he had no idea if Jaskier had even survived the collapse of Stregobor’s manor beyond the testimony of Yennefer that she’d seen someone walking away from his side.

Just the thought that Jaskier might have remembered for a moment while Geralt was unconscious and injured felt like a knife in his gut. He tried to imagine what it would be like to open your eyes and not know who you were or what you were doing. Or what it would be like to have every piece of yourself scraped away until you were nothing more than a mindless beast.

All because Jaskier had chosen to follow a Witcher.

The thought kept him up late at night and left him restless during the day. It didn’t matter how far he traveled in search of Jaskier each day or how many times he’d raced to chase down some new whispers of the former bard moving through the Continent. Jaskier was still missing. And it would always be Geralt’s fault.

Yennefer and Eskel tried to help him when they could, but he could see the doubt growing in their eyes. They didn’t believe Jaskier was salvageable. They only saw the dead eyed man who stood by Stregobor’s side until the end. They saw the Asset who had done everything in his power to kill his former friend. Not the bard fighting to come back to the surface.

When Eskel told him he needed to return to the Path, Geralt hadn’t fought him. He’d thanked him for the help he’d given so freely and sent him on his way. Neither of them mentioned how few contracts Geralt had been taking while he was hunting an entirely different prey.

Yennefer was the next to leave, though she’d remained at his side through the winter. She wouldn’t risk leaving Ciri unguarded by one of them for long. With the mountain passes cleared and Kaer Morhen open to travelers once again, Ciri needed to be taken somewhere safe again. It was obvious that she hoped he would come with her, but the thought of admitting that he had failed Jaskier again made him want to scream.

She’d given up on ever bringing Jaskier back from the darkness he’d fallen into. He could see it in her eyes every time she tried to convince him to come back to his child surprise like that would anchor him to this earth again. 

But everytime he looked at Ciri, all he could remember was the look on Jaskier’s face when Pavetta’s magic had left the room like the aftermath of a storm. The way Jaskier had looked so relieved to see Geralt safe and unhurt in the midst of all the panic. 

So Geralt stayed away from Ciri and left her in Yennefer’s care, trying to ignore the guilt at the hurt he knew he must be causing. He wasn’t capable of acting human. Not when all his mind seemed capable of producing was vivid memories of what it had been like to look into Jaskier’s eyes and see nothing but hatred. He thought of what it had felt like to swing a sword at his only friend and realize that he’d almost killed the person who taught him what it was like to be treated like a human. 

He’d wanted to avoid taverns and all that they reminded him of, but forced himself to visit each and every backroad hole-in-the-wall and inn along every major road in an attempt to find his bard. If there was anything left of Jaskier in the Soldier, he had to hope it would lead him back to the stage eventually. Performing had always been the foundation of Jaskier’s soul. It would be the proof he was desperately searching for that Jaskier could recover from the horrors of Stregobor’s magic.

And yet, even after countless stages and crowded bars, Geralt had nothing to show for it. He’d seen more than a few bards attempting to entertain the masses--even a few who’d sung versions of Jaskier’s songs--but none were the blue eyed lute player he was searching for. Each time he was forced to admit defeat and move to the next town, he made sure to check the wooden case that hung from Roach’s saddlebag to ensure it was still safe. 

The lute had been a gift and a curse in the year and more that Jaskier had been missing. At first, it had been difficult to look at the reminder of his failure to keep the bard safe. He’d hidden it in the attic of the cottage where they’d hidden Ciri and tried not to think about how upset Jaskier would be if he knew how his beloved instrument had been treated. Now that there was a chance of getting Jaskier back, he would guard it with his life.

When the summer began to cool with the promise of spring, Geralt had to admit that his plan of searching for a bard wasn’t going to work. Whatever they’d done to Jaskier had destroyed too much of him to hope it would be that simple. He needed something to lure the Soldier out or give up searching and turn to killing off everyone responsible for harming Jaskier.

Geralt settled on revenge.

* * *

It took him a week to find the group of Reavers that had managed to stumble away from the dragon hunt in one piece only to find a broken bard at the base of the mountain. They’d taken up with one of the minor noblemen who’d made a little kingdom for themselves when Nilfgaard had fallen from their lands. They were little more than warlords, but they had enough mercenaries at their disposal to be a threat. After failing to kill the golden dragon, he supposed they’d decided to search out easier prey.

He left Roach with Yennefer in favor of the sturdy grey gelding in order to keep from being recognized as easily. Jaskier had spent too many years singing of Roach’s bravery and Geralt’s distinctive look that it was always difficult to travel without turning a few heads. The songs were usually a double edged sword of comfort and regret, but he couldn’t ignore the effects of Jaskier’s popularity when he was trying for subtlety. 

So he and the horse--which Ciri called Daisy, but Geralt refused to acknowledge such a  _ ridiculous _ title--made their way into the south, following the information he’d gathered from Tris and Yennefer’s network of mages. Only three of the Reavers were still alive and he intended to reduce the number to zero once he got his answers.

Geralt tossed the reins over the hitching post outside the tavern charmingly called ‘The Witch’s Tit’ and scowled when the stupid horse started to follow him with a soft whicker. Roach would never have allowed such foolishness. 

“Stay,” he said firmly and made a point of tying the reins. The gelding's ears flicked forward and he nuzzled at Geralt’s pockets for the treats Ciri was prone to giving. The Witcher sighed heavily and walked through the poorly hung wooden doors.

Immediately the noises of conversation went quiet for a beat as people took in the newcomer. Thankfully his cloak kept his pale hair out of sight and he merely nodded to the villagers before going to the bar and ordering an ale.

He was three ales in before the door opened to reveal Kennet and Gar. The Reavers were dressed in scarred and weathered leather gear adorned with a few scraggly teeth filched from whatever dragonkind they’d murdered in their lifetime. They were laughing loudly enough that he could hear them from his place at the back of the room and he watched the way the rest of the room seemed to flinch away from them.

“A beer for me and my friends!” Kennet called to the barkeep who frowned at him.

“You still have a tab from your last visit.” Gar’s knife slammed into the counter with a thud only an inch from the bartender’s hand. The man’s blood drained from his face as he stared at the blade and then at the Reaver. Wordlessly he began to pour drinks for the two men, adding a third when the door opened to reveal Boholt.

Drinks in hand, they settled onto the table nearest the fire and began to get drunk with a determination that might have been impressive if Geralt wasn’t contemplating just how quickly he could gut them. The rest of the townspeople avoided the table like the plague and it was obvious why. The Reavers had always been loud and crude, and they’d clearly only gotten worse since he’d seen them last. They had gotten too used to being the deadliest fighters in the room.

Geralt intended to cure them of that habit.

He watched and waited in a forgotten corner of the bar, tipping the young serving girl when she brought him a piece of fresh bread and warm stew. It was a marker of how terrible the Reavers must be that she looked almost eager to serve Geralt if it kept her away from their wandering hands. Gar and Kennet kept up a steady stream of leering comments and commands for anyone unfortunate enough to catch their attention while Boholt drank enough ale to send the bar into bankruptcy.

No one would miss them when they were gone. They certainly didn’t look twice when Geralt followed the stumbling Reavers out into the darkness. A few glanced his way and just as quickly focused back on their drinks, looking satisfied.

He let the drunken trio lead him back to the house they’d stolen from some poor family by the looks of it. The shutters were barely hanging on and it appeared to be covered in all manner of old weapons and saddles. The Reavers ignored the mess and pushed open the door to nearly fall inside and set about building a fire in the fireplace, laughing uproariously all the while. Geralt slipped in behind them, quiet as a shadow.

Boholt saw him first and Geralt rewarded him with a knife deep in his gut, meeting the man’s wide eyes with a feral snarl. He let him fall backwards and felt satisfaction bloom at the stink of a perforated bowel. The Reaver would die, and slowly, for what he had done to Jaskier.

The other two had managed to get their weapons out by the time the Witcher turned around, but were weaving badly enough that Geralt wasn’t concerned. He let the hood of his cloak fall backward and let the light from the fire turn his eyes molten.

“You’re the Witcher…” Gar gasped, hand trembling around his blade.

“What do you want with us?” Kennet blustered, “There are no beasts or contracts for you here.”

Geralt turned and locked the door with a sharp click. When he looked back at them, Gar looked like he was in danger of wetting himself and he let the vicious part of him relish their obvious terror.

These were the men who’d handed Jaskier over to Stregobor. They’d seen the bard’s eager smile and open devotion to the Witcher and only thought of using it against him. His only regret was that they would die before Jaskier could wreak his own vengeance.

“You gave the bard to Stregobor,” he said instead. “You took an injured man and sold him to be tortured.”

Kennet’s jaw clenched indignantly, but Gar only shuddered at the death he could see in Geralt’s eyes. “Says who? You’ve got no proof.”

Geralt reached one hand out almost casually and cast Igni at the base of the wooden stairs and wall. Immediately smoke began to fill the air as the old boards ignited. Boholt made a feeble sound of terror and tried to crawl further away from the heat, one hand keeping his guts in place.

The other two Reavers seemed to finally find their courage because they rushed the Witcher with a yell. He met Kennet’s overhand swing with one hand around his wrist and met his eyes with a snarl. With a rare use of his enhanced strength against a human opponent, Geralt squeezed his wrist until he felt the bones crunch beneath his fingers and Kennet’s screams filled the room. 

Kennet tried to slash at him with his free hand, but Geralt tossed him aside with barely any effort. Summoning the last of his courage, Gar raced toward him when his back was turned. Geralt cast Aard almost casually, enjoying the way the man’s body was thrown across the room. He followed it with a quickly cast Yrden, locking the Reaver in place. 

The fire was gaining speed now, eating across the rotten floorboards hungrily. Boholt was nearly unconscious on the floor near the door and Geralt shoved him back towards the center of the room with one foot so he wouldn’t attempt to escape. Gar was screaming at Kennet to help free him from Geralt’s magic, but it wouldn’t do him any good now. The fire was spreading far too quickly for Kennet’s flagging courage.

Geralt slowly walked to where Kennet was collapsed on his side, cradling his injured hand to his chest while he glared at the Witcher. He hissed in a mixture of pain and fear when Geralt lifted him off his feet by his neck. 

“You know, he knew you,” Kennet said as Geralt reached for his blade, “Your pal, your bard, your  _ Jaskier _ .” He hurled the last word like it was a weapon.

The world seemed to go still as Geralt stared at him. “What did you say?” he rasped.

“He remembered you. I was there--when they started at least,” the man laughed, eyes alight with hate. He gasped when Geralt’s hand tightened around his neck. “He used to tell us all about how you would come and save him. His  _ Witcher _ would always come for him.”

Geralt felt like his mind was shaking apart as he stared at the man who’d witnessed the destruction of the only thing that had ever mattered.

Kennet’s grin was cruel like he knew just how deeply his words were carving into the Witcher’s soul. “But you never did, did you? I wonder how long it took before he stopped screaming your name every time they started to--”

His words cut off with a shocked gurgle and looked down at the hand punched through the fragile skin of his stomach. His eyes raised to meet seething gold.

Geralt felt the flutter of the man’s lungs as he attempted to suck in air and felt a vicious sort of pleasure at tasting the man’s pain in the smoky air. He let the moment linger for a heartbeat--just long enough for Kennet’s false bravado to disappear beneath his agony--before he twisted the hand into a familiar sigil.

The screams of the burning man followed him as Geralt turned on his heel and walked out into the cool night air.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter is MASSIVE and way longer than I intended. I just couldn't help myself with these scenes of Jaskier's recovery with these completely new characters I created and would now die for.
> 
> Slight trigger warning: there is a brief mention of an attempted assault that is halted before anything unacceptable happens. If that isn't your jam, ignore the section that starts with "Three months into his stay at the inn..." You can pick up in the next section without issue.

He wandered.

He had failed his mission. The white-haired Witcher lived. It wouldn’t be long before one of his handlers came to collect him and punish him for his negligence. 

Because of his negligence, Stregobor was dead. He had seen the Witcher shift his stance in preparation for a throw, had seen his eyes flick over his shoulder to where the mage still stood, but had chosen not to stop the blade from sinking into his former master’s throat. 

After all, he had not been ordered to protect Stregobor. Just to kill the Witcher.

Something deep within him had enjoyed the brief look of shock in the older man’s eyes as he’d fallen. He’d believed the creature he created would remain loyal even after constant beatings, torment, and pain. The Soldier might have been broken in more ways than one, but he could at least die with the knowledge that the mage would never create another monster like him.

When he first walked away from the smoke and ruins that marked what was left of his memories and his mind, the Soldier wasn’t certain he  _ would _ survive. The battle and the fall had left him limping and aching all over. One of his ribs was cracked and he was forced to shove his shoulder back into place using a tree in order to maintain functionality. If the Witcher returned to finish him off, he needed to be able to at least be able to use his weapons.

Until that moment came, he would keep moving. He put the smoke from the manor to his back and walked. When night fell, he curled up in the shadow of a downed oak and closed his eyes.

__________________________

_ You’re my friend! _

I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry.

_ I loved you! _

__________________________

He came awake gasping and reaching out for a hand that wasn’t there.

The Soldier frowned into the grey darkness of the early hours and forced his pounding heart to settle. He wondered if it was possible that the Witcher used some sort of magic on him. Or if this was another form of punishment designed to force him to crawl back to his handlers once again. These memories of someone who’d died long ago had no purpose in a weapon’s mind. If he were still at the manor, he would have already been brought before the doctor to have these troubling flaws wiped from his mind. Now he could only grit his teeth and bear it.

His body ached when he forced himself to his feet. He considered the black and purple bruising across his torso and arms and dismissed it as manageable. He could keep a good pace even if the pain continued at this rate. It was imperative to reach another town so he could refuel and find clothing that would allow him to blend in better.

He picked a direction and walked, ignoring the ache of his feet that seemed to travel up into his bones and burrow into his brain. The Witcher and his allies would be on his trail soon and he needed to put distance between them while they were still slowed by the warrior’s injuries. He had no doubt that as soon as the Witcher was capable of movement, he would be on the hunt for the Soldier.

It made his decision to allow the man to live even more confusing.

Every bit of his training warned him against any decision that left witnesses or someone who could identify the beast lurking in their midst. The Witcher was even more dangerous and deadly than any villager that might be able to point a finger in his direction. His senses and abilities were even more enhanced than the Soldier’s and he was...fixated on him. There was more than violence driving the man to follow in the Soldier’s footsteps and that made him dangerous.

The next night he ignored the exhaustion numbing everything to a dull throb of agony. He forced himself to keep moving in spite of it, purposely choosing routes that shifted at random points and avoided the main roads. The moonlight was barely enough to keep him from falling into any ditches or crashing into a tree. He hummed softly to himself, letting his mind fixate on the melody.

Three days later, he finally had to acknowledge that he had gone as far as he could without sleep and proper food. His vision was beginning to blur and he’d stumbled twice in the last five minutes. If the Witcher found him like this, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself and they would take him back or murder him where he stood. 

The sight of lights through the trees brought a wave of relief. He nearly wept when the lights slowly brought the buildings of a small village into focus. Voices from a group of laughing townspeople forced him to duck behind a cluster of bushes to keep from being seen. He sucked in a breath and felt his stomach growl painfully at the smell of bread and sizzling meat from the tavern. There was no way he could walk into the bar covered in dried blood and dirt even if he had the money to pay for food so he redirected to the building beside the tavern.

The Soldier used his shoulder to silently open the stable door, his eyes fixed on the noise and lights of the tavern nearby. When he was sure there was no one to see him there, he slipped inside.

The stable was a comforting mixture of the scent of fresh hay and warm bodies, shifting curiously at the arrival of a newcomer. Bright eyes followed his path as he walked over to the storage bins and fished out a bit of oats to fill his empty stomach. He was careful not to take too much and risk someone pinning him for the theft, but he needed something or risked collapsing. Once he wasn’t feeling quite as weak from hunger, he found a dipper and pail of water nearby and drank deeply, letting the liquid fill in the empty spaces in his stomach.

He stood and walked down the wide space between the stalls, holding his hand out for one of the more curious horses to lip at his sleeve. Some of the tension in him eased at the peace and relative stillness of the stables. When he’d traveled with his handlers, he’d always been locked away in some rented room to sleep on the floor. Now he enjoyed the idea of getting to sleep on a fresh bed of hay for the night in freedom.

A gentle eyed brown mare curled her ears toward him with a soft huff of air and he stopped beside her stall. Something in him felt calmer in her presence even if she was unfamiliar. He stroked a hand over her soft nose and scratched under her forelock until she bumped against him for more attention. Unbidden, a soft melody came to mind and he hummed under his breath.

There was a sound of voices outside and the Soldier stiffened, ducking into the stall next to the friendly mare. She turned to sniff him curiously, but didn’t protest the intrusion. He waited for the sounds of the villagers on their way home for the night to fade before he relaxed into the straw. 

His body ached from the hard pace he’d set in his path away from Stregobor and he was reminded of all his injuries in the quiet of the stables. Normally, one of the lesser mages would have already brought him in for maintenance and healing after such a difficult fight, but he’d rather suffer a thousand injuries than consider trusting a mage again. Instead, he curled into a tight ball beside the mare and let his eyes close, feeling almost safe in the darkness there with her.

  
  
  


In the morning, the Soldier came awake to the sound of the stable doors being opened and the horses giving soft wickers of welcome. 

Instantly he was crouched at the mare’s feet, reaching for the knife he’d hidden beneath his clothes to avoid any suspicion if he was seen. He hesitated before reaching for it, debating whether drawing a knife would bring more attention to him or if he should just pretend to be a beggar looking for a place to sleep. The decision was taken from him when an older woman came into view with a bucket of grains in one hand and the air of someone pressed for time.

“Well, my lovelies, another day has dawned,” she called and the horses moved to the front of their stalls, ears pricked with excitement. The woman continued to croon to them as she moved down the row and deposited a scoop of oats and grains with each.

And with every step, the Soldier felt his panic increasing. There was a knife in his hand, sweating under his palm. It would be easy to sink it into the soft skin of her neck and hide her body out of sight. 

It was something his handlers would have ordered him to do.

The thought was enough to make him hesitate with an expression of distaste. He didn’t  _ want _ to kill the woman who seemed to care about the horses who had kept him warm and safe through the night. She didn’t deserve to become a victim.

He barely managed to get the knife out of sight before she moved to feed the brown mare and finally caught sight of the stranger hiding in the stall.

Whatever surprise she must have felt was covered by a careful sweep of the Soldier. He could see the moment she connected the dots between the dirty, bloodied clothes he still wore and his wide-eyed panic that was barely concealed by the long hair tangled around his face.

“Hello there,” she said after a beat. “Are you lost or drunk?”

The Soldier licked his lips, hunching his shoulders defensively and looking at the ground.

“Well, you don’t look like much of a drunk and you don’t seem to be from around these parts--guess that means you’re lost.” He could feel the weight of her eyes on him before she pulled open the stall and gestured for him to come out. He went, slowly and begrudging, but unwilling to risk her wrath. Already he missed the warmth of the hay and the safety of the stall with the brown mare.

The woman stared at him for another long moment before nodding to herself like she was deciding something. “My name is Tanis. I own the tavern and the stables here.”

He watched her silently, waiting for the moment when her true nature became apparent. She had every right to have him thrown out for breaking into her property even without knowing he’d stolen some of the grain from her storage room. Perhaps she’d be satisfied with having him run out of town instead of a public whipping.

  
  


“What’s your name then, child?” Tanis asked kindly.

He opened his mouth, thinking of the name shouted by the Witcher with so much hope and grief dripping from each syllable. It felt awkward against the mantle of all the violence he’d wrought, all the blood dripping from his hands. 

His voice was rough as steel against stone, but he forced himself to answer. “Jas…”

She waited a beat for him to continue, then shrugged. “Well, Jas, are you any good with horses?”

The Soldier considered the familiar way he’d moved through the stables last night and slowly nodded. 

“Good--I’ve been needing someone to take over since my last stableboy went off and got married, the little idiot.” Tanis handed him the bucket of oats while he was still busy gaping at her. “Take this and see to the rest of the bunch. Each of them needs to have their stalls cleaned twice a day. I don’t allow for any abuse in my household so if I catch you harming one of them, I’ll hobble you myself.”

He blinked at her, startled by the fierce glint in her eye at the last statement. For some reason, the threat felt nothing like the words shouted so often by his handlers and helped ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

“You’ll get three meals a day if you come by the kitchen before the rush. I don’t mind if you have a cup of ale in the evening, but you won’t be getting any pay for drinking on the job.” She glared at him until he nodded again. “There’s a room beside the hayloft that you can use if you’d like. I’ll see about getting you some better clothing as well.”

Then she turned and left him standing alone in the stables, feeling a little like a tree left in the wake of a hurricane.

* * *

Working for Tanis was good for all its strangeness.

Tanis’ tavern was all that remained from her marriage to a man who’d possessed more bravery than luck and had disappeared years ago to seek his fortune in the army. He’d left behind a stubborn widow and young daughter who’d decided they preferred keeping men out of their lives and set about creating a way to fend for themselves. The tavern wasn’t large, but it was well maintained and food was decent enough to ensure farmers were willing to make their way into town after a long day in the fields. 

Despite the large crowds and brusque talk from the men that frequented it, Tanis ruled it all with an iron fist. She was kind to those who earned her favor but had no problem wielding the rolling pin she kept behind the counter if anyone got too handsy with one of her staff. Her daughter, Nora, was as gentle as her mother was fierce and benefitted from the healthy fear of her mother’s wrath. She was the one responsible for the warm bread that was good enough to earn her a marriage offer at least once a week.

Both women took one look at the wide-eyed, jumpy man Tanis led in from the stables and seemed to immediately decide that he belonged with them.

The Soldier found himself settled firmly onto a small table and chairs before he could do more than blink in surprise. New, sturdy clothes were pressed into his hands and Nora informed him that there would be a warm bath waiting for him as soon as he’d eaten. Both women fussed over him until he felt a warm flush curl up his neck and he had to look down at his food while his mind tried to absorb this strange situation.

The weapon within him was listing each and every weapon within reach and how many ways he could kill the women before they could warn someone that he was there. It fidgeted against the gentle words and quick glances over his head that they thought he couldn’t see. No one was ever kind without expecting something in return.

Only...all the women seemed to want was what Tanis had offered in the stables.

Each morning he woke up and cleaned the horses’ stalls in the pale dawn light and could wash up before walking over to enjoy the hot breakfast waiting for him with a grateful smile from Nora. He would eat his food and help clear away the breakfast dishes and head out to the main room to sweep and mop away the mess from the night before. Then it was back to the stables to brush down whatever horses were being boarded that night. He liked the familiarity that came with gently working away the dirt and dust from their coats.

At night, he stayed away from the noises and revelry, preferring to stay in the back and clear away cups and plates without attracting any attention from the customers. It left him free to keep an eye on any problematic drunks and steer Nora and Tanis away from them before they were at risk. 

It wasn’t until several weeks had passed that Jas looked up and realized that he hadn’t thought of running for weeks.

* * *

“Were you a soldier?”

He flinched hard enough to drop the collection of dirty plates he was carrying and felt a bolt of pure terror run through him.

Instantly Tanis pressed a hand against his shoulder--gentle, always gentle--and nodded as if he’d responded. “It’s alright, boy. You’re not the first to come back from war missing a piece of yourself,” she soothed and ran a hand over the simple ring hanging from a string around her neck, “My man, Corric, he had the same troubles when he came back. Rest his soul.” Tanis leaned down and helped restack the plates he’d been carrying and patted his hand. “Don’t you worry now--no one will hurt you here as long as I’m around.”

She walked back to the counter to scrub down the old wood as though she hadn’t left him cut open and vulnerable in her wake. He licked his lips, fighting against the burn in his eyes and carefully took the plates into the kitchen.

That night he swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to keep Tanis and Nora safe. Even if it was from him.

* * *

The only thing Tanis and Nora’s kindness couldn’t help were the dreams.

Sometimes they were almost comforting. Just the simple sight of a dusty road beneath his feet and the sunlight streaming through the trees. Occasionally he would see the shadow of the brown mare at his side with a man sitting astride her. It didn’t matter how many times he tried, the man’s face remained unclear and confusing, mouth occasionally opening to rumble words Jas couldn’t make out.

The dreams matched the snatches of images and sensations that plagued him during the day. He would reach out for a mug of ale and hear the roar of a phantom crowd in his ears. His fingers would brush over the scars littering his chest and sensation would be foreign, like his fingers were used to scars placed elsewhere. It was like being a stranger to his own mind.

But nothing was worse than the dreams that seemed to haunt him each night.

Yellow eyes would blaze down at him, pleading and desperate like they had never been in the fight with Stregobor. Full lips would shaped words he couldn’t quite make out but seemed to echo somewhere deep inside him. No matter how hard he fought, he never was able to reach the hand stretched out towards him.

Then he would fall.

On those nights, Jas would wake up feeling more panicked and anxious than he ever was in the daylight. Covered in sweat and chest heaving, he would stare out into the darkness, trying to understand why the Witcher seemed to always leave him unsettled. The reminder of the way the other man had seemed so desperate to speak to the Soldier or how he’d curled himself protectively around him when they fell from the tower made his chest ached.

Knees curled to his chest, the man with no memories would watch the sun rise and try to breathe through the loneliness that was suffocating him.

* * *

Eventually, the Soldier found himself feeling more like Jas and less like the weapon Stregobor had created. He would never truly be free of the training or the lessons that had been beaten into him over and over again, but it was becoming easier to be something  _ more _ too.

He still shied away from the crowds that gathered each night, but he didn’t hide from the gentle touches of Nora or Tanis’ brisk affection. They made a point of continuing past his initial flinches until he could accept a quick squeeze of his shoulder in thanks or a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t realize how far their protectiveness extended until he realized how often they stopped what they were doing to check on him in the stables or remind him to come eat.

It made something deep in his chest warm.

And so, he forced himself to try to return their affection by allowing him past the walls he’d been trained to build as the Soldier. He allowed them to walk at his back and pretended he wasn’t aware of where they were at all times. To keep the peace, he even hid his weapons out of sight so they wouldn’t know he was armed.

“You’re humming,” Nora said as they worked side by side in the kitchen, preparing the bread dough.

He flinched a little, surprised. His fingers went up to his throat like he could feel the rogue vibrations for himself. Blue eyes darted to her, waiting to see how she would react.

Nora carefully continued to work at the same pace as she had been, leaning a little so her shoulder pressed against his arm. He could feel himself trembling a bit with anxiety as he waited, but she only smiled up at him, “It’s nice. You should do it more.”

Jas let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and nodded jerkily.

* * *

He watched the bard perform from the safety of the shadows near the pantry. 

Tanis was up front with the other barmaids dealing with the crowds of farmers and craftsmen trying to drink away a long week of work, but he couldn’t help but pause when the first sounds of music carried over the crowd.

He stood, something in him shifting restlessly at the sight of the man in gaudy clothing crooning the first lines of a love song. How he knew it was a love song from the first bars was a mystery. Just as it was impossible to know how he felt so sure that the man’s voice was slightly flat and would perform better at a lower octave.

The platter of dirty dishes felt awkward in his hands, too heavy compared to...something. Something important to him.

A hot flush grew on his neck when the performer glanced his way and he quickly disappeared into the backrooms. His hands shook as he methodically washed away the remains of someone else’s dinner and tried desperately  _ not _ to think about how much he wanted to be out there, voice joyful and without the nightmares that kept his own stifled. His head pounded with the beginnings of another migraine and he pressed his palms against his eyes until red spots danced in his vision.

He tried not to think about the music still continuing merrily outside in favor of viciously scrubbing away various stains in the kitchen and going outside to see to the stables.

He failed.

  
  
  


When he went to bring out the last tray of clean glasses and plates, he felt his heart leap at the sight of the bard leaning heavily against the counter, drink in hand. 

It was obvious the man was deep in his cups--the jaunty feather in his cap was leaning precariously and there were new stains on his trousers from falling into one of the puddles on the floor. He sighed noisily and let his eyes droop in an impromptu nap despite the few villagers still chatting around him.

The Soldier crept closer, using every bit of stealth he’d learned under Stregobor’s trainers. His fingers itched at his side as he approached his target--the small lyre leaning against the minstrel’s stool. 

It was the work of a moment to grab it and tuck it out of sight in his oversized shirt, but when he went to turn away, a hand reached out and halted him with a quick gesture.

Heart in his throat, he turned back to find the drunken bard eyeing him curiously. The man squinted at the Soldier’s face, shadowed by the hair he allowed to hang in loose curls. 

“Do I know you?” he asked after a moment, “You remind me of someone…”

The Soldier licked his lips and shook his head fervently, fighting against a wave of images tainted with blood. “N--no. We, uh, we’ve never met.”

There was a moment where he thought perhaps he’d been discovered and would be forced to leave the relative safety of Tanis’ inn, but the stranger just huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “My mistake, boy. Get us another ale, would you?”

Nodding quickly, Jas scurried away toward the safety of the kitchen and muttered the man’s order to one of the passing barmaids. He ignored Nora’s questioning look and nearly ran to the stables, not stopping until he was surrounded by the familiar scent of hay and horses.

Only then did he dare to reach down and pull the lyre out to examine it more closely. His fingers brushed over the strings and the soft thrum made him make a soft, pleased noise at the back of his throat. It was rough and needed warming up, but it felt right, even if there was something wrong with using this particular instrument. He shifted his grip plucking a short series of notes that his mind told him were the bridge to a song that he no longer knew the words to.

Jas spent the whole night toying with the stolen lyre, his mind whirling with half-formed phrases and bits of musical arrangements. It made his head ache, but somehow the pain felt meaningless against the smile curling his lips and the peace in his heart. 

_ ‘When a humble bard, graced to ride along...with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…’ _

Returning the lyre the next morning was painful, but necessary. He would never allow himself to bring trouble back to Tanis or draw unwanted attention to the broken man living in their stables. 

But, after a month of saving his earnings and listening to the rumors of any merchants coming to town, Jas returned to his small room clutching a scarred wooden lute.

If Nora and Tanis heard the sound of a lute--chords rough and slowly gathering confidence--being played late in the night, they didn’t say, but he did find a packet of new strings left on his pillow a few weeks later.

* * *

Memories of the man he had been came in fits and bursts and with him always was the Witcher.

He remembered brief flashes of a smile so rare he wouldn’t trade all the gold in the world to share it with another. Pale hair the color of moonlight and the dreams too fantastic to survive in the daylight. 

With them came an ache that was sweetly familiar for all of his pain. He’d loved the Witcher once--of that he was certain. Loved him so fiercely that every atom in his being seemed to vibrate in his presence.

Whether that love would ever have been returned was meaningless now.

The Witcher’s bard had fallen and the Soldier had gotten back up.

* * *

Three months into his stay at the tavern, Jas was headed back to his bed, tired and sore from a long day, when he heard a soft sound that set all of his senses alight.

All of the peace and gentleness he’d clutched at with a white knuckled grip disappeared as the Soldier scanned the area slowly. His hand went tight around the knife that was suddenly in his grip and he felt his mind go blank in anticipation of a hunt. 

A soft sound again--barely noticeable to any who had not spent a lifetime causing pain--and he  _ moved _ .

The Soldier made no sound as he skirted around the edge of the stables and moved toward the woodshed just beyond. It was rarely ever used outside of winter for more than a place to store tools too bulky to go in the stables. No one should be near the building this late at night but he could just make out the sound of two heartbeats pounding fast and frantic within the shelter of the rough awning.

He paused, wondering if perhaps he had mistaken the nature of this meeting when a familiar voice said, “Stop,  _ pleas-- _ ”

And the world went red.

When he clawed his way back to the surface again, he was standing over the still body of a vaguely familiar man and could feel a hand clutching at his sleeve. He turned, panting, and saw Nora, eye wide and dark with terror. He flinched, thinking it was directed at him, but she only tightened her grip on him like she was afraid he would disappear.

“Jas?” she asked in a trembling voice.

For her sake, he cleared his throat so his voice wasn’t quite so choked with screams. “Are you okay? Did he--?”

She shook her head and he felt a wash of relief so strong he swayed. “He was...he tried to, but then you came.”

He shifted so his body blocked the corpse behind him and looked her over for any injuries she might not have noticed in the adrenaline rush. His hand stretched out to cup her cheek, but he pulled back at the last minute, unwilling to put bloodstained hands on her. Immediately, Nora reached out and clutched his hand.

“Are you okay, Jas? You came out of nowhere and he hit you so  _ hard _ .”

Only then did he notice the dull throb on his side that told him he’d probably broken or bruised his ribs again, but he smiled weakly. “Nothing that won’t heal, dear heart.”

Her lower lip trembled and he froze, thinking he’d done something wrong, but then she threw herself into his arms. Nora’s hands clenched tightly around him until his side began to ache, but he refused to complain. He just held her and smoothed a hand over her hair while she sobbed, breathing in the familiar scent of bread yeast and flour and  _ home _ .

It was strange to stand here with Nora in his arms and find something within him settling into place like a missing puzzle piece. Protecting another felt  _ right _ . It felt  _ familiar _ . His eyes went instinctively to look for the other person who’d always stood by his side when he was comforting a victim and frowned at the empty night. Because Geralt wasn’t there. 

But Jaskier  _ was _ .

When she’d calmed down, Jaskier led her away from the shed and the body cooling there. Tanis was waiting at the entrance, looking worried. Her eyes went flat and cold at the sight of her daughter’s tear streaked face and the bruises that were beginning to darken on her cheek and neck.

“Who?” she asked in a voice that carried death.

Jaskier straightened, still protectively keeping his arm around Nora. “He’s dead,” he answered.

A part of him thought he should have lied. Tanis had already risked so much allowing him into her home when anyone else would have sent him on his way with a swift kick. She had offered him sanctuary and purpose while his mind fought to find some sort of new normal. Now he’d killed a man practically on her doorstep and hadn’t been able to keep Nora safe from the kind of beasts that hid among humanity.

Tanis looked him over before nodding and reaching for her daughter. “Good.”

Nora squeezed him one more time and walked into the warm light of the tavern with her mother trailing like an angry hen. Tanis gave him a look that kept him in place while she pressed a hot cup of tea into Nora’s hands and a blanket around her shoulders. Satisfied for now, she kissed her daughter’s forehead and whispered something too low for him to make out. Nora nodded and Tanis quietly padded over to where Jaskier was still awkwardly waiting for her judgement.

Then she picked up an old shovel set beside the tavern door and hefted it to her shoulder. “We’ll bury him out by the peach trees with the others,” she grunted and headed toward the shed.

Jaskier could do nothing but gape at her retreating figure before scrambling to catch up.

* * *

From then on, it became easier to sort out what parts of him belonged to the Soldier and which were bits of Jaskier.

The Soldier remained a silent force in the back of his mind, always watchful and ready to protect himself against any threats. It watched the crowds of familiar faces and logged away bits and pieces of information that would make it easier to escape should they become hunted again. It was always a little restless, missing the structure of having someone who would dictate his every move even if it meant the risk of punishment when he failed. That part of him still twisted with a complicated series of emotions whenever he thought of the horrors that lurked beneath Stregobor’s manor and what had been done to create it.

It was Jaskier who liked to sit in the sunlight like a lazy cat and toy with lyrics and phrases that raced around his head like rabbits in a field. He’d strum at the lute he’d bought and try to ignore how much he wished it was a better instrument. If his music was a little darker now, it was fine. Just a symptom of the scars that made it hard to see the bard beneath at times.

And it was Jaskier that continued to wake late in the night with one hand stretched out toward the ghost of the man he’d loved enough to fall for. A man he’d followed through hell only to get lost along the way. He wondered if Geralt continued to search for him after he’d left him there in the ruins. Maybe he’d chosen to remain with his beautiful mage instead now that he’d had his revenge on Stregobor. Maybe he didn’t think Jaskier could be saved.

He wasn’t sure which he preferred.

_ “Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh oh so kind, _ ” he sang softly to the stars instead, letting the ache in his heart fill the words with longing,  _ “You’ve brought me through this darkness but you left me here behind. And so long to the person you begged me to be…” _

_ He’s down. He’s dead. _

_ Now take a good long look at what you’ve done to me. _

* * *

“You hear about the barghest in Cairgrave?”

Jaskier looked up from where he’d been clearing a table, all thoughts of sneaking a few slices of the pastry from the kitchens disappearing at the farmer’s words. He zeroed in on the two men sitting at one of the tables nearby, already deep in their cups.

“Is that the beast that took the widow Anice’s boy?” his friend asked with morbid curiosity. Such news and gossip would be enough for him to score a few extra moments with the woodcutter’s daughter he’d been eyeing for weeks.

“Aye, poor thing. It looks like they’re going to call in a Witcher. The mayor put a posting up and everything.”

The other man grunted and took a deep swig of his ale. “Guess that explains why people have seen that white-haired Witcher sniffing around--”

Jaskier didn’t wait to hear the rest of their conversation. He could barely breathe through the pulse thundering in his ears. His lungs felt like they couldn’t seem to fill with enough air. He could feel peoples’ eyes on him as he raced away with no location in mind except  _ away _ .

He was coming  _ here _ .  _ Geralt was here.  _

How was he ever going to face him again?

The thought of seeing the Witcher again made something hot and wild throb in his bones, eager as any addict to their fix. The weak facade of Jas and the man who’d been happy to stay in the safety of Tanis and Nora’s tavern was falling apart around him. There was no way to cobble it back together now. All he wanted was to see the Witcher for himself, to ensure he had walked away from the rubble where Jas--where  _ the Soldier _ had left him. The reminder made guilt burn bright and eager within him.

What would he do if the Witcher only saw the Soldier instead of the fragile pieces of what was left of the man beneath?

He knew he wouldn’t fight Geralt if he chose to end the threat of the Soldier for good. Even with Stregobor gone, he had still been programmed to be a weapon wielded by any who claimed him. He’d killed so many people without a single ounce of remorse for Stregobor and his handlers that he didn’t deserve the forgiveness he’d found in this tiny village and in the Witcher’s desperation to save him. How could that survive against the truth of the monster he had become?

He came too with Tanis’ arms around him like she could hold him together against the tremors threatening to shake him apart. She rocked him gently, hushing him when he made a rough sound and started to shift away.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she asked softly, “The Witcher. He’s the one you’ve been waiting for.”

Jaskier frowned at her. “I haven’t been waiting.”

Tanis rolled her eyes. “So you were planning on spending the rest of your life hiding in my stables?”

“Yes.” Maybe. 

He wasn’t sure.

“It took me a while to figure out who you really were, bardling. At first I thought you were just some poor soul who’d been caught up in the war, but as soon as I heard you sing I knew you weren’t some peasant boy,” she said, voice even as though she wasn’t aware of how every word made Jaskier tremble. “Then I thought maybe that white-haired beast hurt you and that I would have to go through the trouble of killing him myself.”

Jaskier snickered at the very idea of watching the impossible might of Tanis going against Geralt’s impenetrable stare.

“But now I know you were just waiting until you were ready to face him again.”

He looked down. “I...I don’t know if he’ll want me around again.” It felt like a weak explanation for all that had happened, but he could risk her knowing the truth. “I did some terrible things.”

“But you love him.”

Jaskier looked out at the green fields and the dark shadows of the forest beyond. Even half mad with Stregobor’s magic, something inside of him would always belong to Geralt. It was the only reason why he’d finally been able to walk away and reclaim himself.

“Yes, damn it. I really do,” he answered ruefully.

Tanis stood and brushed off her skirt, offering a hand to Jaskier and a lopsided smile.

“So what are you waiting for?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tanis and Nora are the real MVPs. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Your comments help keep my writer's block at bay! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. My writer's block decided to hit me with a lead pipe to the face, I swear.

_ You know he remembered you… _

He forced himself to breathe. To breathe and not think about lifeless blue eyes staring back at him.

_ Your friend, your buddy...your Jaskier. _

But Jaskier had never truly been his, had he? Geralt had never allowed the bard to have the affection or friendship he’d clearly craved. He hadn’t even known the strange mixture of emotions he felt each time he watched the bard’s face light up at the sight of him was love until after Jaskier had fallen and Geralt was alone. Again. Always.

Clenching his jaw until it ached, he stared down at his shaking hands and tried not to think. When they steadied enough that he could continue to sharpen his blades, he began again, wishing it filled him with the same peace it used to.

The truth was, returning to the Path had only heightened the Jaskier-shaped hole in his chest. He had been so busy after the bard had fallen chasing after Ciri, keeping her safe, and ensuring Nilfgaard would never get their hands on her again that he’d never truly given himself time to grieve for Jaskier. Instead he’d run from the ache and tried to mask his loneliness with activity.

But now it was obvious--Jaskier had been more than a friend. More than a travelling companion. He’d forced his way into Geralt’s life like a battering ram and refused to acknowledge the growls and bad tempered scowls from the Witcher. He’d taught the Witcher what it was like to be treated as a human. To be treated like he  _ mattered _ .

Jaskier had been his  _ friend _ . Maybe the only one he’d ever truly had. He had been one of the only creatures in the world who actually--impossibly-- _ enjoyed _ being around Geralt. 

And, after a time, Geralt had begun to rely on Jaskier’s ineffable cheer and loyalty as his anchor against the open hatred of so many others. Why should it matter that an innkeeper was too frightened to speak when Geralt asked for a room if Jaskier was there to grin up at him and ask if they had enough coin for a hot bath? Who cared if villagers still clutched their children tighter at the sight of him when he could listen to Jaskier’s soft snores when he fell asleep with his head on Geralt’s shoulder?

And still Geralt had let him fall?

A piece of wood popped on the campfire and Geralt was startled away from his thoughts. He tossed the whetstone in the direction of his pack. Thinking of Jaskier now would do him no good. All that mattered was ensuring that he kept whatever was left of Jaskier safe from ever experiencing that level of pain again.

The last year had forced him to accept certain truths about the bard and the Soldier.

If what the Reavers said was true, then some part of Jaskier was still present in the Soldier Stregobor had created. Other soldiers who had worked for the mage that Geralt had hunted down had confirmed the story. They’d told him how often Stregobor needed to ‘wipe’ the Soldier to ensure he remained obedient. Each of them had stories of what horrors would be unleashed any time the Soldier had been allowed the freedom he needed to make them pay.

It pleased a dark part of Geralt’s soul to hear that Jaskier had not gone willingly with them. That much was hardly a surprise--no man who could wish down the wrath of the djinn on his rival would be an easy victim. While Jaskier had never had a reason to turn on Geralt, the Witcher had seen more than a few instances of the vicious mind that lurked behind winsome looks when someone Jaskier cared about was threatened. No amount of magic could ever strip that away from him.

Geralt bided his time hunting down each of the men and women who had seen the horrors forced on Jaskier and stood idly by. It helped distract him from the other thought that seemed designed to drive him to distraction.

If Jaskier remembered him--or any part of their history, for that matter--why hadn’t he come back?

It had been a year now. He’d made no effort to disguise his path across the Continent and still stopped regularly at bars and taverns to ask after his lost friend. It would be simple for someone to find him, even discounting the obvious training Jaskier had been given.

Yennefer had used that fact as brutal ammunition the last time he’d stopped his crusade to visit her and Ciri. They both were worried for him, though Ciri still held out a rose tinted hope that the smiling musician of her childhood was still salvageable. (She said nothing about the way Geralt had trembled and gone still and silent for hours after she admitted that Jaskier had been a regular at Cintra’s court. Or when she’d said the bard had claimed to be watching over her for a friend.) 

The nip in the air that was growing more persistent reminded him that his time to continue his search was growing short. He’d sworn to both of them--Yenn especially--that he would be back in time to reach the paths that led to Kaer Morhen. It would mean holding off his searching and hunting until the spring, long enough to gain back the weight he’d lost and pretend to be sleeping more.

As it stood, sleep had become something he tried to avoid as often as possible. His dreams of Jaskier had not been eased by the news that his friend had been alive all this time. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

Now, instead of Jaskier falling, he watched the familiar body writhe in agony under stranger’s hands, calling out for Geralt until his voice was hoarse and unrecognizable. 

He dreamed of a shadowed figure that lingered over him in the wreckage of Stregobor’s manor before turning away.

His fingers slipped over the whetstone and he cursed when his clumsiness was rewarded with a bright line of blood across one finger. He tossed the stone in the direction of his pack and scowled at the dying fire. Exhaustion weighed on him like an anchor, reminding him that despite his mutations, he was at his heart human. If he continued like this, he would die beneath some creature’s claws long before he ever found Jaskier.

The thought was enough to herd him toward his bedroll. He looked over at the fire and sighed when he realized that it would die out before the morning, but decided it couldn’t be helped. It was hardly the first time he’d allowed it to happen without a fragile human’s comfort to worry about.

A rare smile drifted over his lips at the thought of Jaskier’s furious rant when he’d learned that the Witcher was more than capable of keeping his bathwater warm for hours if need be. The memory helped ease him into a restless sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Geralt woke to the smell of cedar smoke.

He shifted with a grunt, chasing the comfort of a shocking peaceful sleep before opening his eyes. Beside him, a cheery fire was crackling merrily thanks to several well dried branches of cedar limbs stacked on top of it. 

Someone had tended to the campfire.

Sitting up, Geralt scanned the area around his camp while his senses strained for any sign of the intruder. He reasoned that no enemy would have bothered with adding wood to a fire if he wanted to slit his throat, but the gesture left him baffled. Who could have gotten so close to him without waking him? And why?

When no obvious answers appeared to his questions, he got to his feet and padded around the clearing for good measure. The strong scent of cedar was enough to ensure he wouldn’t be able to scent the intruder easily and he was left staring blankly into the woods feeling more than a little confused.

* * *

The strange activity didn’t stop there.

A few days later, he found a small, carefully wrapped package waiting for him at the center of the path he’d been following towards the next town.

Geralt had stopped, turning to look around for some sign of who had dropped it before moving closer. His fingers hesitated just above it, waiting to see if there was any reaction from his medallion before crouching down and picking it up. 

Whatever was inside the neatly wrapped exterior of leaves felt soft enough that Geralt dismissed his initial thought that it was just a strange basket of some sort. He gently unwrapped the outer layer and let the familiar shape spill into his palms.

Berries. Specifically the strawberries that he craved all winter long. He could remember crowing in triumph when he’d found a rare wild patch of them with Jaskier. They’d eaten until their hands were sticky and mouths were stained red then slept in the sun-warmed meadow for the rest of the day. These must have been tucked away somewhere sunny to have avoided the autumn chill. Each of them was perfectly ripe and gleaming red with the promise of sweetness.

At a loss, Geralt looked back at the quiet woods around him, feeling like the trees themselves were holding their breath in preparation for his response.

“Um...thank you?” he said, pitching his voice loud enough that it could be heard clearly.

Only the birds singing their usual songs answered him, but he imagined that the silence around him felt a little more pleased than before.

* * *

Next was a skinned rabbit tied next to a copse of trees that could be pushed back to reveal a perfect area to stop for the night.

After that, another package--this time with several useful plants--was left on top of his pack for him to find the morning after he’d limped back to camp with a barghest’s head in one hand and more than a few reasons to restock his first aid supplies.

He began to look forward to the packages and small signs that someone somewhere was worried about him.

Late at night he would stare up at the sky and contemplate who it could be. Yennefer was far too distracted with Ciri to think about taking care of his grumpy ass, even if they had managed to maintain their romantic relationship. Ciri’s magic wasn’t strong enough to send anything via portal and he would have heard any attempt she made. It could be some member of the Fair Folk feeling particularly thankful--he had saved a fairy queen a few weeks ago from a few overeager humans.

He avoided thinking about who he  _ hoped _ it was.

He knew better.

* * *

Shoulders slumping under the weight of his exhaustion and something that felt a little like heartbreak, Geralt tossed the gelding’s reins over the rough wooden hitching post and patted his side. The horse gave him a narrow eyed look that conveyed his disgust at being ridden so far into the wilds and Geralt huffed. He missed Roach.

“I’ll see if they have a room to rent,” he told the gelding, who showed none of Roach’s skill at understanding what he was saying.

A farmer gave him a curious look when he pushed open the door to the simple, but clean tavern and made his way over to the bar. Geralt was careful to watch for any signs of muttering or dark looks. He’d been run out of more than one town due to human prejudice and he didn’t intend to earn himself another Butcher title.

Thankfully, aside from the usual curiosity, the townspeople seemed to dismiss his presence. It meant there probably wasn’t a contract for him nearby, but at least he could hope for a good night’s sleep.

He leaned against the bar until a young, pretty brunette stepped out of the kitchen and approached him with a practiced smile. “Good evening, sir. What can I--” She froze looking him over more closely before staring at him with a stunned expression. “You’re the Witcher.”

The way she said the title sounded like it carried extra weight and Geralt frowned at her. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’d like a room for the night.”

The barmaid ignored him as though he hadn’t said a word and looked around him like he might be hiding something. She appeared confused when she looked back at him. “Where is Jaskier?”

Even a year later, the name was enough to send a bolt of raw agony through him. He closed his eyes, trying not to think about the way Jaskier had looked at him without truly seeing him. Like he was nothing more than a target. Or the way he’d walked away after everything that had happened between them--and stayed away. That was a private grief he had no intention of sharing with this stranger.

A movement near him made him open his eyes to see the girl had stepped closer as though she intended to offer him some kind of comfort before pausing a few inches away. He had no memory of stopping at this particular tavern before Jask-- _ before _ , but his memories of their travels had had plenty of time to blur together. She could be anyone of the countless men and women Jaskier had seduced along their travels or even a fan who’d followed his progress.

_ I love you. I’m sorry. _

He breathed past the voice in his head that continued to haunt him and shook his head, voice gruff. “He’s not with me.”

Far too simple an explanation for everything that had transpired between them, but it was all he could manage.

Strangely enough, his words seemed to annoy the barmaid and her eyes narrowed on some unseen point. “What the fuck?” she whispered under her breath. Then she gave him a smile that was far too tight to be genuine. “Stay here--I need to check on something.”

Before he could respond, she was marching through the kitchen doors and leaving him there alone.

Geralt gaped in her direction. What was  _ that _ about? She hadn’t seemed the type to deny him a room because of his status as a Witcher, but she’d certainly had more on her mind than offering him a drink or even a tumble--not that he had any intention of taking her up on the offer.

There was the sound of voices speaking urgently--two females, one of them the barmaid--just inside the kitchen door. The wood was thick enough that he couldn’t make out the words over the low hum of conversation from the other patrons, so he sighed and settled onto a bar stool to wait. 

The door swung open just enough to reveal an older version of the barmaid who frowned in his direction before disappearing once again.

The voices began again, this time joined by a low timber of a male voice. It sounded like the women were berating him for something, but Geralt couldn’t for the life of him recognize what it had to do with him. He restrained the urge to sigh again. It looked like he wouldn’t be getting a room here after all.

With a tired grunt, Geralt got to his feet and padded out the door, feeling the eyes of the villagers on his back.

The gelding’s ears flicked back in irritation when Geralt reappeared. The Witcher almost reconsidered his estimation of the horse’s intelligence if it could guess that he only had bad news that quickly.

“Looks like another night in the woods,” he told it. 

The gelding released a gusty sigh and stamped his hoof in warning when Geralt reached for the saddle horn to pull himself up. The Witcher contemplated dealing with the fight that was brewing in his horse’s eyes, but couldn’t summon up the energy.

“Fine,” he bit out, “I’ll walk for a while.” The horse just glared at him and he shook his head, “Fuckin’ Roach never complained half as much as you, you mangy piece of--”

“ _ Wait _ !”

Geralt jerked to a stop at the frantic voice behind him and turned back to see the barmaid from before scrambling after him. Her eyes were wide with enough alarm that he started to reevaluate the chances of there being a contract in this town. 

“What?” he asked impatiently, eager to find a place to lay down.

“I--” the barmaid faltered, looking flustered, “I need you to come back with me.”

Geralt winced, hoping this wasn’t some ridiculous attempt to coerce him into sex. Even if he wasn’t bone tired, there was no way he was ready to consider sex when the image of Jaskier always linger behind his eyes. “I’m not looking for a fuck,” he said briskly.

“What?” the girl blinked, bewildered, before frantically shaking her head, “It’s not that! I, uh, I need some help with a...ghost.”

“A ghost,” Geralt repeated skeptically.

She nodded her head, smile too manic to be honest. “Yes, a ghost. In my barn.”

Geralt looked past her to the well maintained wooden barn and hayloft just behind the tavern. He arched an eyebrow at her. “Hmm.”

“Listen, I’ll let you stay in a room tonight and stable your horse here if you agree to check it out.”

He considered the offer. “And food.”

“And food,” she parrotted agreeably. “For you and your horse.”

The gelding bumped into him hard enough to nearly topple him. Apparently the stupid horse could understand  _ that _ word well enough.

Geralt considered her for another beat before nodding. “Fine.”

She beamed like he’d agreed to a marriage proposal, but managed to dim her enthusiasm when he gave her another suspicious squint. Something was going on with this woman, but he was too tired to let it keep him from the chance to sleep under a roof and in an actual bed for a change. 

He hoped his mystery friend wouldn’t mind that he wasn’t in the woods that night.

Surprised at the feeling of guilt from the thought, Geralt glanced back towards the woods like he would be able to see the invisible presence for a change. The sensation of being watched that he occasionally got wasn’t present and he huffed out a breath at his own foolishness. It was just his own imagination that had him thinking he’d gained a friend or at least an ally somewhere between his last job and this sleepy town.

Oddly disappointed to be alone again, Geralt followed the barmaid toward the barn and handed over the reins when she offered a hand toward the horse. Roach would never allow someone she didn’t know to take off her tack, but the gelding was practically trembling with delight under the woman’s practiced hands. She didn’t speak further so he didn’t protest when she continued to hang the tack up to dry out and led the gelding into a well-maintained box stall.

As she worked, he focused on the stable itself for any signs of the ghost she’d mentioned. Judging by the comfortably curious reactions of the other two horses stabled here, he was sure his suspicions that there wasn’t anything evil nearby were accurate. There was no way a horse with any sort of sense would remain this calm if there were a malignant spirit around. Which meant the girl was trying to trick him somehow.

He turned to say so, but before he could do more than take a step in her direction, she was out the doors and sliding them shut behind her with a dull thud that told him the crossbar had been dropped on the other side.

Cursing in the sudden silence of the barn, Geralt started forward with a furious sound. Free room or not, he was getting the fuck out of this--

There was a soft thump behind him that had all of his senses shrieking in alarm.

Slowly, he let his hand drop to the silver dagger on his belt before he pivoted in a practiced move that allowed him to throw the blade at his target in a fluid motion. The knife spun through the air in a quick blur before--impossibly fast--a hand caught it with the same ease of a person playing catch. 

Geralt’s eyes focused through the muted darkness of the stable and felt the air rush out of his lungs in a painful whoosh as he finally focused on the other man’s face.

  
“ _ Jaskier _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt deserves nice things. Jaskier is a nice thing.
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos are bullets and bombs in the war against writer's block.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right y'all, another chapter! All your lovely comments and support helped get me pump out some sweet sweet conversations between our two boys. 
> 
> Enjoy this fluff while it lasts.

“Do--do you know me?” Geralt asked and there was something painfully fragile in the question.

“You’re the Witcher,” Jaskier said, nervous and trying not to think about all the ways he could escape from this situation. It was probably only a matter of time before they were fighting again and Nora would kill him if he fucked this up. His face was still burning from the combined might of Nora and Tanis’ disappointed looks when they’d discovered he hadn’t actually managed to approach Geralt. “I’ve heard the songs about you.”

_ Stupid _ , he mentally berated himself,  _ why are you so fucking  _ bad _ at this? _

Oddly, the painful embarrassment he felt flaming through him at the idiocy of his last statement made him think about bread and brooding. It felt familiar to stand in front of the Witcher and make a fool of himself. He frowned.

Geralt’s eyes flickered between Jaskier’s face and the rest of him like he was trying to memorize all of the details while simultaneously checking him for injuries. “Um, do you remember anything else?” he asked, looking like he was trying for casual and missing by a mile.

“I tried to kill you.”

The Witcher shrugged dismissively, still staring at him with far too much hope in his eyes. “Everyone does eventually.”

Something hot and burning gripped at Jaskier’s throat, choking off his words. His hands twitched at his sides, but it’s not until he can process the urge to throttle the other man that he recognizes the emotion.

He was fucking  _ furious _ .

The very idea that Geralt would allow him to murder him, to beat him until he was bloodied and broken made him want to  _ scream _ . He could feel his breathing going uneven and he knew he’d already taken too long to respond, but he can’t seem to rein his body back under control. All the careful calm and emptiness of the Soldier felt like it had been demolished just by being in the presence of this stupid, irritating, idiotic  _ Witcher _ .

Abruptly his mind was filled with the image of leaning over the larger warrior with his hands full of bandages instead of weapons. His hands reaching out to brush pale hair dotted with blood gently out of the way before beginning to clean away the worst of the dirt and matted blood away to examine the wound.

_ Did you even try to keep yourself from getting hurt? _

_ It’s fine, Jaskier. It’ll heal. _

_ It still hurts though.  _ Even if his words were sharp, his hands remain gentle against scarred skin and he can feel the fear still running through him.  _ You have to take better care of yourself. Do you ever think about what I’d do if you didn’t come back? _

Jaskier blinked away the memories to stare at the Witcher. He licked his lips, feeling off balanced and barely in control of the urge to run--whether it would be toward Geralt or away, he wasn’t sure.

The Soldier inside of him was already charting all the escape routes he could use. A leap to the right would put him within reach of the hayfork which he could use to disarm the other man. He could go left and climb the rickety ladder up to the hay loft where his simple room was. From there it would be simple to pull himself up the narrow window and jump the short distance to the old oak outside. If he pushed himself, he could be out of the barn within one minute.

But the bard resisted the urge.

He had already proven he couldn’t truly escape the pull he felt toward the Witcher. For the past three weeks, he’d done nothing but follow in the other man’s wake like he was pulled by an invisible string. It had been an impulse to begin leaving little gifts for him and quickly became an addiction. Anything to see the small, surprised smile on those full lips. Anything to feel like he was doing something good to make up for all the blood staining his hands.

It had almost been enough to make him feel human again.

Now, he was face to face with the worst of his sins. Their fight at Stregobor’s orders featured in almost every one of his nightmares now. He remembered the desperate look in Geralt’s eyes as he called Jaskier’s name. He remembered the sensation of Geralt’s bones breaking beneath his fists and the way his skin bloomed with bruises shaped like the Soldier’s hands. But it was the way Geralt had relaxed into each strike without fighting back that made him shudder with horror.

“What if I had killed you?” he whispered, eyes fixed on the way Geralt’s hands remained relaxed at his sides as though he weren’t face to face with a murderer.

Geralt just stared at him in that painfully hopeful way before he just shrugged. “You would never hurt me.”

“ _I did hurt you!_ ” Jaskier snarled, slicing through the air with one hand, “I nearly fucking _killed_ _you_!”

“That wasn’t you, it was Stregobor-”

“The fuck it wasn’t!” he snapped, taking a threatening step forward and growling in fury when Geralt still refused to move away. “It wasn’t Stregobor who broke your ribs or stabbed you. It was me.” The Witcher flinched at the way Jaskier’s voice broke on the last word, but Jaskier refused to allow himself to avoid the pain each word brought. He deserved to be miserable. “I would’ve killed you without ever even questioning it. All I was worried about was how quickly I could gut you so my handlers wouldn’t punish me for delaying it.”

“But you didn’t.” Geralt’s voice was as steady as Jaskier’s wasn’t, impervious to the truth of what had happened.

They stared at one another, both stubbornly holding on to their version of events.

“Does that mean you remember?” 

Geralt’s voice should never be so soft, so fragile, Jaskier thought. He tried to ignore the part of him that wanted to throw himself into the Witcher’s arms and beg for forgiveness. 

“I’m not him,” he whispered, “I’m not the boy who followed you. He died a long time ago.”

There was a terrible sort of emotion in the Witcher’s eyes, shadowed by the dim light of the barn. “I didn’t come here for that boy, even if I do miss him,” he said, “I came here for you.”

“The killer?” Jaskier asked with a bitter twist of his lips.

“My friend.”

He scoffed, looking away to rake his hair through his long hair and send the curls tumbling around his face. “Right. I may not remember everything, but I seem to recall you fucking a dark haired sorceress after she tried to kill me.”

Geralt took a hesitant step forward, eyes on Jaskier like he was waiting to see if the movement would cause him to run. Some of the tension bled out of his broad shoulders when the bard remained in place, blue eyes tracking each movement.

“Yennefer,” he said and explained at Jaskier’s frown, “the sorceress. And we’re just friends.”

“You seem to have a lot of those.”

Instead of being offended by that, Geralt smiled a little--there and gone before Jaskier could contemplate the way his lungs felt like they went sideways at the sight. “I doubt she’d call us friends outright, but we are bound together.”

Jaskier frowned, pushing through a confusing mixture of images and memories. “You...wished for more.”

“I wished that she wouldn’t die because she wished for a child.” Another step.

“Then you fucked her,” he said, a little brittlely, “I saw it. I thought you were dead.”

Some of the brightness in Geralt’s eyes dimmed at that, but he didn’t refute Jaskier’s statement. “I have made many mistakes--all of which should have driven you away from me.”

Jaskier tilted his head up in challenge. “So why bother trying to get me away from Stre--Stregobor?” He had to force himself to utter the name that would have earned him more than one beating in the past.

He wasn’t their weapon. Not anymore.

“I thought you were dead,” Geralt said and the raw emotion in his voice made Jaskier’s heart ache, “I saw you fall. I… If I had known he had you--Jaskier, you have to know I would have come for you.” 

The last words were practically pleading and it settled oddly against the memories he had of the stoic Witcher.

“They told me you were glad to be rid of me,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt moved in a burst of speed that made his heart race with alarm and forced him to grit his teeth against the urge. The Witcher paused just a few inches away, looking fierce and furious. His hand stretched out toward Jaskier’s face and hesitated before cupping his cheek for Jaskier’s minute nod of acceptance.

“Losing you nearly destroyed me,” The heat from his calloused palm against Jaskier’s cheek matched the vehemence in his tone and Jaskier could only stare up at him in surprise, “I will  _ never _ forgive myself for letting you fall or for the suffering that followed.”

He licked his lips, trying not to shiver when golden eyes dropped to follow the movement. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt whispered, leaning forward like he could feel the invisible pull that always seemed to bring them back together--

Then they both froze at the sound of the wooden bar across the doorway.

In an instant, Jaskier ducked under Geralt’s still outstretched arm and palmed one of his blades. He moved between the other man and the door, mind going blank in preparation for an attack.

Instead, he found himself staring at a curious-looking Nora, carrying a basket covered with a neat handkerchief that did nothing to disguise the scent of fresh bread and stew. She looked between him and the Witcher gaping behind him with a frown.

“Damn it, Jas,” she said with a scowl, “you lost me a gold coin.”

Geralt moved up to his side and frowned at the woman before asking Jaskier, “You know her?”

Jaskier smiled softly, the knife disappearing out of sight quickly. “I’ve been staying with them for a while,” he murmured before raising his voice to Nora, “What was the bet?”

“I was sure you’d be busy screwing each other’s brains out by now, but Mom thought you’d be too chicken.” She moved forward to settle the food onto the simple table Jaskier used when he was too busy or too unsettled to eat in the tavern. 

Despite her playful irritation, Jaskier saw the way her eyes narrowed on the Witcher like she could sense if he’d done something to hurt him. The love he felt for the two women only grew even if he could feel a hot blush darkening his cheeks at the thought of what might have happened if she  _ hadn’t _ interrupted. He didn’t have to wonder what Tanis or Nora might have done if Geralt had pushed his advances without Jaskier’s approval--both women would drag him out of hell itself if he asked.

“As if I’m that easy, Nora, my love,” he said with a little of the charm he remembered from his life before.

Geralt looked a little dumbfounded by the obvious way Nora had dismissed his status as a threat and looked to Jaskier for some kind of indication as to how he should behave. Jaskier ignored him in favor of stepping forward to help her pull out a loaf of bread still warm from the oven and two large helpings of ham and potatoes. It was far nicer than the simple food he’d made while following the Witcher’s trail and he felt his stomach growl in anticipation.

“Bottomless pit,” Nora teased with an affectionate bump of her shoulder against his. It hadn’t been long since he’d begun to allow such gestures and he always caught the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes when he didn’t flinch away. She looked over at the Witcher standing awkwardly a short distance away. “I’ve got a room made up for you at the tavern--sorry about lying to you about the ghost.”

Geralt opened his mouth to respond, but Jaskier cut him off before he could regret the decision. “No need. He can stay with me.”

Nora’s eyebrow arched in surprise and he toyed with the edge of the basket to avoid Geralt’s eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. She gave him a wink before heading for the door to the stables. “Well then, I’ll see you two in the morning. Tanis’ orders.”

Silence fell in the barn as Jaskier busied himself with pulling over the rickety stool he used and an empty barrel they used to store grain in the winter months for Geralt. He watched the Witcher stare at Nora’s retreating back in the corner of his eye before turning back to Jaskier looking like he’d sucked on a lemon.

“Are you sleeping with her?

“Gods, no--she’s far too good for me,” Jaskier said as he tossed a bit of ham into his mouth, humming at the taste, “They’re like family.”

Geralt didn’t respond, but he could practically sense the relief in the way the warrior tossed his swords and most of his armor onto a bale of hay and settled onto the barrel. There was exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders and the lines around his eyes. Jaskier could smell the evidence of the Witcher’s long travels and the way the other man had been avoiding civilization except to ask after his lost bard. 

He pushed a thick piece of bread with butter melting into the soft insides to him and tried to ignore the grunt of thanks made him want to preen. Instead, he layered a slice of ham over his own piece and took a bite, groaning under his breath at the taste.

“I went to your family. In Redania,” Geralt said out of nowhere.

Jaskier looked at him, searching through his memories for the man and woman responsible for bringing him into this world. All he could manage was the impression of stiff clothing and stern impression so he shrugged. “I doubt they noticed I was missing.”

The Witcher scowled at his food like the thought offended him.

A relatively easy silence fell between them as they quickly polished off the last of the food. Nora’s cooking deserved their full attention and Geralt seemed more than eager to fill his stomach with something warm. 

“Were you the one following me?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier considered lying but just shrugged his shoulders.

“Why?”

“You looked sad.” 

It was an oversimplification at best for the desire he’d felt that had kept him from his plans of remaining at a distance. Something about the defeated way Geralt walked away from each tavern to his lonely camp had been painful to watch. He’d started by creeping into the taverns when Geralt went inside and listening in to his conversations at the bar. Then it was keeping watch each night when the Witcher finally fell asleep. 

Leaving the first gift had been an impulse after a burst of memory when he’d seen the strawberries nestled on a sunny hillside. He’d watched Geralt eat each of them with a small smile that made something warm bloom in his chest. From there it had been a burning need to keep finding ways to bring that smile back each time he came across something he thought the Witcher would like.

Geralt looked like he wasn’t sure how to respond to that so he just nodded. “I...thank you.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, but he imagined some of the tension between them eased. It was enough to have Geralt releasing a yawn and looking around the barn with more interest. “You stayed in the stables all this time?”

“I don’t always like crowds,” Jaskier said. “It seemed easier to stay near the horses anyway.” 

When the last of the food had disappeared, he stood and neatly stacked the dishes back into the basket. He’d bring it back to Tanis in the morning. He was sure both of the women would have more than a few things to say to him when he reappeared.

Geralt watched him move, an unfamiliar expression on his face. He looked as though he were afraid to close his eyes and risk losing him again. The thought made him sigh a little and he brushed his fingers over the soft fabric of the man’s shirt on the way to the ladder leading up to his loft. “Come on, then.”

Oddly enough, the Witcher’s obvious nerves helped settle his own as they climbed up to the simple loft he’d called home for so long. There was a relatively large mattress set against one wall and stuffed with straw neatly made with clean-smelling sheets that told him Nora had been looking after the place while he was gone. Two goose feather pillows were still stacked on top of it along with a thick blanket to ward off the autumn chill. Along the other wall was a simple chest that held his other two sets of clothing and what he wore in warmer weather.

Geralt took in the small space like he was greedy for any clues about his life here. He walked over to the chest and ran his finger over the scarred edge of the lute he’d bought. It looked odd in his hands and Jaskier felt a little nervous when he ran a finger over the finely tuned strings.

“You bought another lute,” the Witcher breathed, voice oddly brittle.

Jaskier nodded, busying himself with unfolding the blankets over the bed. “It felt right.”

“I, uh….I looked for your lute, after,” Geralt cleared his voice and continued steadily, “After everything. I never could find it.”

There was more to that story, he would wager, but he didn’t push at the grief that looked so close to the surface.

“Come on, then. You must be tired,” he said instead. Pausing in the act of pulling off his shirt when there was no response. The Witcher was staring at him, eyes on the scars across his chest until Jaskier had to restrain the urge to cover himself. “We’ve done this before, right?”

“Right.”

As if he was forcing himself to focus, Geralt pulled off his boots and stripped off his dirty traveling clothes. He cleaned off the worst of the dirt with the water pitcher Jaskier indicated nearby and pulled the tie out of his hair to release it in a snowy wave across his shoulders. Jaskier hid his own nerves at being so close to another person after so long--let alone being close to  _ Geralt _ \--by doing the same and letting himself settle onto the familiar mattress.

If Geralt thought it was odd that he chose the side closest to the exit, he didn’t say, just climbed in next to him with a weary sigh. His breathing steadied, but Jaskier knew he wasn’t sleeping. He could feel the tension radiating from his side.

“I’m not going to disappear in the night,” Jaskier said quietly. 

“Hmm.”

Oddly the sound made Jaskier’s lips quirk with a hint of a smile. Even with his dismissive reaction, Geralt settled more deeply into the mattress and Jaskier watched silver eyelashes blink slowly before sliding shut. If he concentrated, he could hear the steady, slow rhythm of the Witcher’s heart beating in a cadence that was somehow still familiar after all this time. It helped him relax in small degrees--more than he’d managed in months. Maybe years.

Still, it wasn’t until silence had fallen between them, aside from the soft stamp of a hoof below, that he managed to voice the question that had been turned over and over again in his mind.

“Did I love you?”

The questions looked like it physically pained Geralt to respond, but those molten eyes flashed open and met his. “Yes.”

“Did you love me?” he asked, trying to ignore the way something inside him that was vibrating with nerves at the question.

Geralt’s lips went flat with sorrow as he looked at Jaskier like he could see every scar and broken bone left behind by his captivity. It occurred to Jaskier then that the Witcher must have blamed himself for everything that had happened. Stregobor. The Soldier. Everything. The thought lodged in his chest until it felt like he was choking on it.

“Yes.”

Nodding slightly, Jaskier curled on his side like he’d done each night since he’d awakened in Stregobor’s cells. Only this time, he could practically feel the heat leaching off Geralt’s body just behind him. Just like he could almost hear the words he was trying to say.

“Goodnight Geralt,” he whispered and closed his eyes.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote out a scene for the next chapter because Tanis always makes me laugh and I love her. Hopefully I'll get it done quickly.
> 
> On another note, dare me to write a sequel to this with some sweet, sweet Infinity War angst? Just thinking about Jaskier collapsing to ash with Geralt just out of reach made me want to cry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I wouldn't be following Civil War's timeline? Well, there are some things that are too good to skip.

Early morning sunlight and the familiar rhythm of breathing slowly pulled Geralt out of a deep sleep.

He frowned against the light, curling more tightly against the warm body in his arms. Dark hair tickled his nose and he nuzzled closer, scenting cedar and hay and rust--

Jaskier.

His body tensed in surprise and he felt the moment that shift woke Jaskier from his doze. They both remained silent even as Jaskier’s heart began to thud a frantic rhythm. Geralt could practically see the wheels turning in his hair as the other man oriented himself to the hay loft and to the man at his back. He supposed he should be grateful that he hadn’t pulled a knife before bothering to check if he was with a friend or foe. 

After a moment, Jaskier gently lifted Geralt’s arm off of his middle and slid out of the sheets. They didn’t speak as he pulled on a clean set of clothes and Geralt got up to get out of bed. Geralt carefully didn’t think about how rested he felt sleeping next to Jaskier. Or how he hadn’t had any of the nightmares that had plagued him ever since the dragon hunt. 

“Is that...how we were before?” Jaskier asked with his back to Geralt.

Words seemed to tangle in his throat. “We...were friends.”

Friends wasn’t a strong enough word to explain the cords that had bound them so tightly together. It could never be enough to explain how much trust it took for Geralt to allow someone so close or to follow him on hunts. He’d relied on Jaskier for more than just companionship or entertainment. Jaskier had kept him human, kept him sane, in the years after Renfri’s death and the birth of the Butcher of Blaviken.

Jaskier wasn’t just his friend.

Jaskier was  _ everything _ .

He opened his mouth to try to express some of what he truly felt for the bard, but Jaskier just nodded like it settled something for him. “Come on,” he said, “You don’t want to keep Tanis waiting.”

Geralt barely managed to throw on a shirt and stuff his feet into his boots before he was hurrying down the ladder after Jaskier. He hesitated for a brief moment over bringing his weapons before deciding to leave them here. Though he was more than curious about the women who’d taken in what was left of the Soldier after Stregobor’s death, he didn’t want to go to them as a Witcher. Witchers were created to hunt monsters--Geralt was there to be with the man he loved.

Feeling awkward without the weight of his swords at his back, he followed Jaskier across the well swept path to the back door of the tavern. Already, he could smell the familiar scent of warm bread and cooking meat filling the air. A few villagers were walking through the front doors in a surprising demonstration of how popular this inn must be.

Jaskier ignored the patrons heading into the main room in favor of entering the kitchen with a burst of speed that indicated his excitement. Geralt barely managed to get through the door behind him before the whole room was filled with the sounds of an excited shriek and two women fluttering around Jaskier.

“--took your time!” the younger of the two said with a playful swat to Jaskier’s arm. He only smiled at her.

The older woman pushed past the two of them to stand in front of the Witcher with a stern expression. Suddenly, Geralt found himself wishing for his weapons.

“So you’re the Witcher our Jas was looking for.” Eyes that had gone grey with age flicked over him.

Geralt couldn’t help the way he looked over at Jaskier for any sign of what the other man had told them. Jaskier’s face shuttered and he looked down at his feet. “I am.”

“You’re the man who helped free him?”

Again, Geralt’s eyes flew to Jaskier and he wondered just how much he’d shared with them. “Yes.”

“Did you kill the ones responsible for hurting him?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“All that I could.”

The woman watched him for another beat before giving him a terrifying smile. “Good.”

Jaskier stepped up to her and gave her a fond look. “Stop trying to scare him,” he said and gestured to the woman, “This is Tanis and her daughter, Nora. They took me in for the last few months while I...while I was figuring things out.”

Nora smiled at him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a distinctly protective gesture while Tanis continued to eye him like a mother bear preparing to defend her cubs.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Geralt said, trying not to think of what might have happened if Jaskier had been forced to wander alone and without his memories to protect him, “I’m glad he found you.”

A sweet smile was turned his way by Nora who reached up to ruffle Jaskier’s hair. “Our Jas was certainly happy to see y--”

Jaskier’s hand darted up to cover her mouth before she could finish that statement and a dark blush colored his cheeks. Before he could respond, Tanis moved between them on her way to the food waiting to be prepared.

“Go clear out the stables--I’ll see if all those Witcher muscles are worth something,” Tanis said with a dismissive wave toward Jaskier and completely ignoring the way Geralt stared at her surprise.

Jaskier shot him a grin that had enough of his old mischief in it to make Geralt’s chest ache and trotted out the back door of the kitchen.

When he looked back at Tanis, she was using a large knife to cut up potatoes. Without looking up she gestured towards the open door leading to the rest of the tavern. “You see that broad fellow with the blonde hair at the bar?” she asked abruptly.

Geralt glanced over at the man in question before nodding.

“That’s Ivan. I helped his mama give birth to him, poor woman. He’s been big his whole life--comes in handy with his job working out in the farm. The boy can dig a hole faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. He comes in here everyday just to say hello.”

He stared at her, wondering where this was going.

“And the man leaning up against the fireplace? That’s the constable for the county. I helped get he and his missus through a rough patch a couple years ago. Communication is important for every marriage, you know.”

Geralt remained silent, watching as she continued to chop.

“The man who just walked out the door is alderman, would you believe? I remember when he was just a little thing begging me for scraps anytime his mama looked away. He’s a sweetheart.”

“What’s your point?” he asked impatiently.

Tanis stopped chopping to turn and look at him, every inch of her radiating disinterest in the violence he was very capable of meting out. Her eyes flicked to the doorway where Jaskier had disappeared before settling on him. “That boy out there may not be my son by blood, but he is  _ mine _ just like my Nora. He deserved better than what happened to him.”

Geralt agreed, but didn’t quite understand where the conversation was headed. “So what does that have to do with your customers?”   
  


Tanis’ smile was little more than a baring of her teeth, knife casually pointed at him like she fully intended to fight him in the middle of her kitchen. “I was just making sure you knew that if I  _ ever _ find out that you helped put those shadows in his eyes, no one in this entire region will  _ ever _ ask where you disappeared to.”

For some reason the threat made something in him settle, like a feather that had been twisted out of place. He returned her smile with one of his own. “Likewise.”

She watched him for a beat before dismissing him to return to her potatoes. “Why don’t you put those muscles to good use and scrub those dishes then.”

Geralt walked over to the large tub stacked high with pots and pans and let out a breath as he rolled up his sleeves. Gods help him if Yennefer and Ciri ever met Tanis.

* * *

  
  


It was surprisingly difficult to manage as a human for the day. 

The temptation to use Igni to reheat the water and avoid letting his enhanced strength damage the pots and pans. Through it all, Tanis continued to add to the pile of dishes to wash without any mercy for the skin that was growing red from the unusual task. If he weren’t so baffled by the unexpected treatment, he would wonder if this was something to be expected from the family member of the person he was romantically involved with. 

Mostly he was just baffled by the strange family Jaskier had managed to create for himself while he was half-mad with Stregobor’s magic.

When he finished with the dishes, Tanis was quick to give him another job scrubbing the floors that were stained by years of cooking and spills. He settled in without protest--some not so small part of him eager to find his own place in this strange home. Jaskier was happy here. It was obvious to anyone who knew him how much he wanted them all to get along. If it took backbreaking work and menial tasks to make Jaskier happy, Geralt would do it.

It wasn’t until he stood to empty the dirty water in his bucket that he realized that Jaskier was still missing from the kitchen. Nora had come and gone in a soft swish of skirts as she carried out orders of food and drink. Tanis was busy prepping for the evening rush and barely glanced over at Geralt aside to ensure he still had something to do while they worked.

“Have you seen Jaskier?” he asked with a frown, glancing around the door to see if maybe the bard had gone into the main room.

Tanis paused in her path back to the kitchen and frowned back. “He should’ve been done by now--there’s only the three stalls to muck.”

The pit of dread in his stomach grew and Geralt tossed his things in the direction of the sink without looking. He heard Nora call his name, but Tanis was already following him out into the yard.

At first, it seemed like his mounting worry had been nothing but an overactive imagination. There was Jaskier standing tall and strong in the doorway of the barn. A hay rake leaned against the door next to him as though he’d been halted in the midst of completing his task. He was watching a short man in simple clothing who stood across from him, speaking in a low voice.

Geralt started forward, his arm raised to wave at Jaskier, when it happened.

Jaskier flinched at something the man said, shaking his head and backing away. The man pressed forward, almost herding Jaskier into the barn even as the former bard turned pale. Even from this distance, Geralt could hear the words that seemed to sink like stones in the air between them.

“ _ Ard _ .”

With a curse, Geralt rushed forward and heard Tanis echo his sentiments as they tried to reach the other man. “Jaskier!” he called.

“ _ Bleidd _ .”

Jaskier’s eyes flicked up to his with desperate hope, his mouth opening to shape his name--

“ _ Va en esseath _ ,” the stranger hissed with a smug smile.

And just like that, all of the light and life that lit Jaskier’s eyes disappeared.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear Tanis and Nora shouting an alarm. They couldn’t see Jaskier from where they were still exiting the tavern, but had guessed from Geralt’s frantic shout that something was wrong. He knew it would only be moments before Jaskier’s attempts at creating a new life for himself were destroyed.

“No!” he shouted to Tanis, throwing a hand out. “Don’t come any closer.”

Geralt kept his eyes fixed on Jaskier’s too-still form, begging with his eyes for Jaskier to blink and come back to him. 

Please, not again. I can’t lose you right after I found you.

“Like fuck,” Tanis snarled and come up to his right side, wielding the butcher knife she’d been using in the kitchen. Her eyes narrowed on the stranger and vacant way Jaskier was standing at his side like a cowed dog. “Who is this fucker?”

“I am the Soldier’s true master,” the short man said with a smile that made Geralt’s stomach churn.

“Let him go,” Geralt growled, mentally eyeing the distance between himself and the man and preparing to sprint. He could snap his neck in seconds if he could get close enough. “Stregobor is dead. You don’t need to try to avenge a dead man.”

The stranger laughed, glasses glinting in the sunlight. “I do not care for Stregobor and his ham fisted plots. To be honest, you did me a favor by killing him. It made it easier to reclaim what is rightfully mine.”

“Jaskier is  _ not _ yours.”

“When will you begin to see that your precious bard died years ago? There is only the Soldier now.”

“Give me back my boy and you’ll walk out of here with all of your limbs,” Tanis spat and Geralt heard enough footsteps behind her to indicate the other villagers had arrived.

The man shook his head, smile mocking as he kept his eyes fixed on Geralt. “You always did like to do things the hard way,” he murmured, then raised his voice, “Soldier, make sure none of them follow us.”

The Soldier complied.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find all the easter eggs I left for you? :D
> 
> On continuing into Infinity War: I too, share your disdain for how they treated the characters in Infinity War. More than one person has been forced to listen to my extensive rant on just how shitty Steve Roger's end was (BECAUSE HE FREAKING LOVES BUCKY AND WOULDN'T LEAVE HIM< NOR WOULD HE ERASE PEGGY'S LEGACY AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS)...but I digress. If I did Infinity Wars, I'm in it for the angst. I just wanna have some people get dusted for a short period so I can write some sweet sweet angst. Then I'm gonna bring them back because I guarantee a happy ending. If that's your jam, stick with me friend. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but I needed to stop pounding away at the keys in an attempt to satisfy myself.
> 
> I apologize for the delays in this and other stories. I posted to my tumblr (@geraskierficrecs) that I would be behind due to a death in the family and am just now able to start making headway in my chapters. Never fear, I have not abandoned any of my stories nor any of you wonderful, lovely readers.

Between one breath and the next, the fragile peace that had surrounded the inn disappeared.

And all Geralt could do was watch.

Watch as Jaskier’s eyes went flat and vacant in a way that had become horribly familiar. Those long fingers--meant for creating melodies and adding to the narratives that dripped from his lips like sunlight to a cloud--reached out to wrap around the hay rake that had been forgotten against the side of the building. Before Geralt could do more than give a quick shout of alarm to the other humans gathering behind him, the Soldier hurled the thing through the air in a display of the strength and speed imbued in his body by Stregobor.

Geralt reached out and cast a shield that trapped the makeshift spear in the air only a few inches away from his chest with a grunt of effort. He stared at it, yellow eyes wide as he realized just how far the Soldier was willing to go to follow the orders of the other man. 

The stranger smirked--clearly enjoying the show. He nodded in Geralt’s direction, “Stop playing around Soldier and finish this.”

Growling, Geralt yanked the rake out of the air and rushed forward to meet the Soldier’s headlong rush in his direction, desperate to keep him away from Tanis and the others. He had to keep them safe no matter what. If Jaskier was ever able to break free from the spell and conditioning of Stregobor only to discover he’d murdered the people who’d protected him when he’d needed it most, he would never recover. 

So he let the Soldier crash into him with a bone jarring thud, both men lashing out with a speed no normal human could follow. Geralt spun the rake like a makeshift bo staff, careful not to hit the other man with the pointed end, and used it to block an uppercut aimed for his jaw. The Soldier feinted to the right before following through with a kick to Geralt’s leg that left it partially numb and throbbing. His eyes flicked between Geralt and the other locals, clearly planning out just how to keep them from being able to follow them.

“Tanis, go!” Geralt shouted when the Soldier stumbled back from the force of the kick he slammed into his chest. 

The Soldier shook off the hit far too quickly and rewarded his efforts with a right hook that sent his head snapping to the left. Geralt shook away the black spots dancing in his vision and moved forward with more determination than grace. Each strike was bone jarring in its force, akin to the bouts he’d fought at Kaer Morhen with his brothers. He managed a sloppy block that stopped another vicious jab but not the front kick that connected with his gut with stunning force.

Movement in the corner of his eye had them both looking over in time to see Tanis and one of the burly townsmen lunging for the stranger who’d ripped away Jaskier’s mind and replaced it with the Soldier’s. The man fell backward, clearly not expecting an attack from anyone but Geralt. Her butcher knife was lost in the scuffle, but it clearly wasn’t enough to stop her fury.

Another shout and he saw two more men rush out of the tavern, their attention on the Soldier and the stranger who’d destroyed him. There was a crackle of power from the one on the left, marking him as a mage even before he sent a wave of ice toward the group of villagers coming to Tanis’ aid. The other pulled a sword free with a practiced confidence that marked him as a soldier or mercenary. It cemented the idea that these men had been fully prepared to recover the Soldier at any cost. Whoever they were, they had to know what Stregobor’s magic had created and the power it could grant the person who controlled the Soldier.

Ice curled through Geralt’s veins as he watched the Soldier’s attention shift toward the other, weaker humans, ignoring the stranger’s allies.

_ He’s not the kind you save, _ Yennefer’s voice murmured in his mind,  _ he’s the kind you stop. _

“Jaskier,” Geralt said desperately, trying to reach out for his arm, “Jaskier, you have to come back to us.”

The Soldier twisted beneath his hold, locking Geralt’s shoulder in a painful hold that left him bent over awkwardly. This close, he could feel the tremors of effort in the other man’s body. A frantic part of him hoped that it was some sign of Jaskier fighting against whatever magic the stranger had activated. 

The grip on his shoulder tightened and Geralt grunted as he punched the Soldier’s knee in an effort to break free. There was a soft huff of pain and he rolled forward, letting his body weight do the work. The Soldier managed to land another punch to his spine as he went by and Geralt focused on ignoring the throbbing in his body in favor of keeping himself upright. His fingers closed around the hay rake and he used it as a javelin to spear through one of the men raising his sword to cut down a villager. 

“Soldier!” an unfamiliar voice called, panic evident.

Like a switch had been thrown, the Soldier started towards the stranger with deadly intent and Geralt felt what little hope he had left die a quick death.

There was none of the happy, confident man who’d approached a stranger in the middle of a tavern seeking adventure. None of the gentle smiles and fragile hope from the scarred man who’d tried so hard to find peace in this tiny village. No sign of the man Geralt had been willing to die for, over and over again. There was only the empty shell of a man waiting for his next order.

“Jaskier!” he called again, trying to get to his feet and stop the Soldier’s steady progress toward Tanis. “Jaskier, don’t!”

Hands fumbling at his neck, Geralt yanked out the small charm attached to his medallion as the Soldier tossed the first villager through the air to land with a thud against the barn wall. The mage did a complicated gesture that caused the doorway to the cavern to seal shut with a crackle of protesting wood, ensuring no one inside would come to their aid. One of the horses shrieked in panic at the sounds of violence outside, but there was no one to soothe them now. Not anymore.

Stumbling into a run to close the distance, Geralt gasped out, “Yennefer, I need you!” 

There was a faint thrum from the charm, but Geralt didn’t have time to rejoice before he was throwing himself in the way of a punch that might have caved in Tanis’ skull. “Go, Tanis! Now!” He heard her soft sound of surprise and horror as the Soldier easily redirected his attention back to Geralt. Blue eyes the color of the bright sky above stared at him for a breathless moment without any sense of recognition. Geralt swallowed hard, hope burning bright and desperate.

Then Jaskier’s hands reached out and closed around his neck.

Air suddenly became a luxury item as enhanced muscles locked in an effort to slowly collapse his trachea. Geralt’s hands scrabbled for a hold on the Soldier’s forearm, but couldn’t break his grip. He could see the mage and the stranger smiling with sick pleasure at the sight of the Witcher choking beneath the Soldier’s fist. His back hit the barn wall as the Soldier pressed him back and continued to choke him. His eyes burned, flicking back and forth between the Soldier’s impassive face and the space around him for something he could use to break free.

“Jas..kier,” he gasped out, still trying to somehow get through to him. “D-don’t…”

The fingers around his throat loosened slightly and Geralt sucked in a near painful gulp of oxygen. He let his hands fall to his side, fighting against the urge to fight back. Giving in to the part of himself that wanted to vomit at the new memories of Jaskier’s body breaking under his fists. Grey shadows curled at the edge of his vision and he could feel himself beginning to slide into the darkness.

There was a crackle in the air around them, shifting like a vacuum a moment before a portal blazed to life in the distance. 

Yennefer stepped out, violet eyes shifting to take in the scene. The other mage dropped back to stay near his leader, leaving the dying soldier to twitch against the sun baked earth. Her face went slack with surprise at the sight of Jaskier standing over Geralt. Magic crackled to life around her and she started forward with deadly focus.

The Soldier’s gaze shifted away from Geralt to watch the new threat. His hands moved away from his throat, dismissive. Geralt felt himself slowly sink to the ground, too tired to do more than try to fill his lungs with as much air as possible. 

He felt the power pulling deep from the earth around them as the Soldier turned to face Yen fully. There was no fear in the other man’s eyes as the sorceress prepared to blow him off the face of the earth, only focus. Geralt could practically see the gears turning in his head as he prepared to take on this new foe. A faint hum seemed to emanate from the air around him and it was a marker of how scattered his thoughts were that it took him a moment to realize his medallion was a humming a moment before--

“No!” Geralt roared over the flames that burst into life like an arrow from a bow aimed at Jaskier. He barely managed to tackle the former bard to the ground before Yennefer could strike him down.

They tumbled, limbs tangling and slamming together in ways that promised bruises, if not broken bones. The Soldier recovered faster--unhampered by things like acknowledging pain--and brought his knee up into Geralt’s stomach with violent force. He followed it with a two handed blow to the back of his head even as the space around him shimmered with heat and Yennefer’s deadly focus.

“Soldier,” the stranger’s voice cracked like a whip and Geralt watched Jaskier’s body turn toward him like a hound to its master, “come.”

Geralt was left coughing in the dirt, throwing out a hand desperately toward Yennefer who was already running to close the distance between them to keep her from attacking again. She slid to a halt in a defensive stance over him, eyes darting around the courtyard for more threats. Instead of engaging her, the other mage pulled at his own chaos magic to bring another portal to life beside them.

A new terror filled Geralt when the stranger walked with what was left of Jaskier at his side towards the portal. He rolled to his feet, bracing himself against the barn wall with shaking hands. His feet trembled beneath him, reminding him of the injuries he’d been ignoring and would continue to. Yennefer reached out in an abortive gesture meant to keep him still, but he ignored it. None of it mattered compared to the agony of losing Jaskier again.

“Jaskier, please!” Geralt shouted over the roar of magic, “Don’t do this!”

For a moment, Geralt thought it had worked.

The Soldier hesitated at the edge of the portal, hands twitching in an erratic beat at his sides. He caught a flash of blue eyes hidden behind long, dark hair as he looked back at him. There was a flash of brief recognition. 

A pause.

Then the stranger yanked Jaskier forward into the portal.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream at me in the comments. XD
> 
> (Alas, this chapter and the following will be earning the 'angst' tag.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is going to make all of you angry.

Jaskier opened his eyes to a familiar nightmare.

The stone above his head didn’t belong to Tanis’ inn or the barn loft that had become his safe haven in the months following his escape. He didn’t need to turn his head to see the confirmation that was already making his stomach heave in sickening waves.

He was back.

Maybe he’d never left. Maybe the images of Tanis and Nora’s gentle words and soft touches were the by-product of a mind so fractured it could never become whole again. He should have known when Geralt had returned to his side with only relief instead of rage. That was more than he could ever deserve after all the blood he’d spilled.

The Soldier did not deserve sympathy or devotion. It was a monster.

Like an endnote to his thoughts, Jaskier heard the door to the cell creak open and the shuffle of nauseatingly familiar footsteps. 

His muscles bunched with the need to run, to attack, to anything besides listen to the man come closer. The chains pinning his wrists and ankles to the slab groaned in protest, but held. They would never risk the Soldier escaping so easily.

All he could do now was wait for the moment when everything would begin to fall apart again.

“Ah, my sweet Soldier,” the voice of his nightmares cooed, “I’ve missed you so.”

Jaskier reached desperately within himself for some emotion that would keep the tears burning at his eyes from dripping down his cheeks like a declaration of surrender. He settled on anger. “I don’t belong to you.”

Dagan hummed, unbothered by the display of resistance. They both knew he wouldn’t be able to last long once the pain began again. “Surely you don’t hold any kind of loyalty to Stregobor, do you? He was so desperately short sighted.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw and refused to answer.

“Or was it the Witcher you are so eager to return to?”

Images of Geralt’s face, relief soothing over lines of worry as he took another step in the barn, rose like floodwaters in his mind. He let his eyes close, trying to cling to the comfort of an arm around his waist, the sight of Geralt scrubbing dishes at Tanis’ side, or the memory of a white haired Witcher murmuring softly to a brown mare. It felt like a lodestone in his chest. Like something to cling to when he became lost and afraid. 

_ You’re my friend. _

_ I loved you. _

He clutched at the memories of Geralt’s desperate hope like a child to their blanket. It was different this time. Geralt knew he was alive. He would come for Jaskier this time. He would come and he would save him before he drowned beneath the weight of the silence in his mind that came with each of their cruel experiments.

“Poor little Soldier,” Dagan crooned in a mockery of caring that made Jaskier want to scream, “it’s a good thing that I was there to remind you of who you truly are. Those humans were trying to make you forget your purpose.”

Jaskier jerked his head away in an attempt to stop the hand that ran through his sweat soaked hair. “They  _ saved _ me from you. I am  _ not _ your Soldier.”

Immediately, the gentleness of the hand became an iron brand gripping his hair tight enough to make him wince as his head was pulled back forcibly, exposing his neck to the cruelly of Dagan’s fury. The man glared down at him with glittering rage banked by a lifetime of torturing others.

“You are what I have created. An asset. A  _ tool _ . Nothing more.”

“ _I am_ _not_ _your Soldie_ r,” Jaskier repeated through gritted teeth. “I won’t be that again. I refus--”

The sound of flesh striking flesh cut off his words and it wasn’t until he felt his head snapped to the side from the force of the blow that he recognized the sting.

Dagan’s muddy colored eyes were narrowed into malicious slits behind the thick spectacles he preferred. His short, compact body seemed to vibrate with the anger that Jaskier knew from experience would only lead to more pain. Still, he raised his chin in open defiance and glared back at the man partially responsible for destroying his life. 

Just as quickly as it appeared, Dagan’s anger seemed to disappear, erasing it from his expression like an artist might erase an unwanted detail. It unsettled something deep in Jaskier, but he was helpless to do anything by watch as that eerie, polite smile resettled like a mask on his face.

“It appears you’ll be needing more corrections than I thought,” he said, “Losing Stregobor and his resources will be a setback, I admit, but I’m sure we can find another way to remind you of who you truly are.”

He stepped away and Jaskier felt his stomach twist when he heard the familiar sound of a cart being wheeled into the room.

When Dagan reappeared in his vision, there was a vicious smile twisting at his mouth. 

“We’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way.” 

* * *

Jaskier lost time.

His body and mind had no room for anything but the violent push and pull between pain and unconsciousness. Each time he felt the slow slide into the grey darkness that came with bloodloss and agony, he was jerked back by the familiar burn of magic in his veins and the smile of Dagan’s new mage.

“You can’t get away from me so easily, my pet,” Dagan purred, running a hand through sweat soaked hair, “Not again.”

Jaskier hated the part of himself that wanted to lean into the gentle touch. 

“I don’t know why you keep fighting me so hard when you know it is useless.”

Biting back a scream behind clenched teeth, Jaskier felt himself arch in a painful bow as the brand the mage had been holding in one hand over the brazier in the corner came into contact with his exposed stomach. The scent of burning skin filled the air and he wanted to gag. When it finally lifted, he collapsed back against the slab and panted into the humid air.

Dagan hummed. “Surely you don’t think someone is coming to rescue you this time? Isn’t that what you used to tell Stregobor?”

“Geralt knows I’m alive,” Jaskier said through the heart still thudding in his ears, “He’ll come for me.”

“Even after everything you did at the inn?” he asked, “You really think he would forgive you?”

Images of Geralt’s face contorted in concentration, twisting beneath Jaskier’s blows in desperation. He could remember flashes of blood, of Tanis fleeing from him. The horror and shame seemed to bleed around the edges of each flash of movement, burrowing into his bones until he could barely breathe through it.

“No, no I’m sorry, my pet. I don’t think he’ll be forgiving you so easily.”

Jaskier blinked away the reminder of just how easily he’d been sucked back into the Soldier’s mind. He bit his lip. “He loves me…”

“And you believed that?” Dagan laughed, loud and cruel. “We all know that Witcher’s are incapable of love.”

“You don’t know him.”

It felt weak even to his ears.

Dagan leaned forward, ignoring the traditional means of bringing pain in favor of far more damaging means. He dragged his fingers over the restrained man’s flesh, lingering over a scar from the first mission Stregobor sent him on.

“Perhaps I don’t know your little Geralt,” he agreed, “but I know Witchers. And Witchers are only interested in one thing, aren’t they?”

Jaskier refused to answer, forcing himself to breathe through the panic his words created.

His chest began to rise and fall at a rapid pace. It felt like his lungs were buried under the weight of his panic and fear, unable to fill properly. He wished he could die here with black spots in his vision rather than with the knowledge that all of the pieces of his mind and the life that he’d put back together would now be systematically destroyed.

For the first time, he wished he didn’t know what it was like to see Geralt and  _ remember _ .

“We all know what Witchers are  _ made _ to do. Designed by blood and sweat and magic to live for centuries with one, singular purpose.” Dagan eyes went flat and cold. “Witchers hunt monsters. They  _ kill _ monsters.”

He leaned in until his breath brushed against Jaskier’s cheek in a mockery of a caress. “And what are you, my Soldier?”

“A monster.”

* * *

They put him back in the cells after.

There was no need for chains or ropes to keep him in place. They knew they’d taken the only thing that mattered the moment when they had the Soldier attack Geralt. As soon as the words had been uttered and the spell cast, all of the traces of Jaskier the bard had disappeared under the bloodlust. It had only taken a matter of seconds.

That quickly, Jaskier’s lie had been revealed.

There was no going back to the way things might have been or even the way they were. He couldn’t be the idealistic, excited boy who’d dreamed of adventure. He could never be the weak, vulnerable man who’d dreamed of being a hero in the eyes of the man he’d been in love with. He wasn’t even sure he was human anymore.

Geralt would never be able to pretend after this. That ship had sailed, crashed, and sunk beneath the waves of reality. 

Jaskier was a monster now. Same as any bruha or barghest. Worse maybe, because he knew what so many people never understood. When it came down to dragging the blade across his throat at the end of all things, Geralt would be dealing himself an injury he would never recover from. 

Shivering in pain, Jaskier curled on his side on the cold stone. Tears burned in his eyes and ran down his cheeks, safe in the dark. 

The words, when they came, were familiar in the way so few of his memories were. 

“When a humble bard graced to ride along, with Geralt of Rivia along came this song…”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. *hides behind the 'Angst with a Happy Ending' tag*
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr if that's your thing @geraskierficrecs. <3


	8. Chapter 8

For the space of eight heartbeats after the portal closed, there was only silence.

Then Geralt made a low, wretched sound in the back of his throat and stumbled forward on legs gone numb with agony. “Jaskier…” he whispered, horrified.

He’d lost him.

It was like the days after the fall all over again. At his sides, his fingers closed over empty air and regret. His chest felt tight and too empty without the scent of the bard in his lungs. Even now, he could sense it growing faint beneath the overwhelming bitterness of iron and the fear of the other humans. Soon, it would be nothing more than another memory.

The thought sent a bolt of pain through his strong enough for him to continue forward with near-mindless focus--like he could force the missing man to reappear through willpower alone. 

“No,” he said softly and then again with a roar, “ _ No _ ! No, Jaskier!”

Yennefer made an aborted movement to stop him, but he turned on her with a rabid snarl. 

“You let them take him!”

“He was attacking you!” she snapped back, temper showing in her bright eyes. “I  _ protected _ you.”

“He would never hurt me.”

Something in the sorceress seemed to snap. “Maybe before Stregobor got his hands on him, but this is the second time I’ve seen him try to kill you, Geralt!” He flinched and she made a frustrated noise. “I know you think you can get through to him but--”

“He was Jaskier again!”

“ _ Jaskier is dead! _ ” she roared, both of them panting a little with the effort not to throttle the other.

Geralt sucked in a furious breath, but was cut off by the sound of a loud crack followed by a wrenching sound. They turned toward the sound in time to see the overgrown vines that had barred the tavern’s door hacked apart by a familiar blade. With a last bit of groaning wood, the door was forced open to reveal the villagers and a furious Tanis.

She scanned the yard with a gimlet glare that only flickered once with something close to the grief pounding in Geralt’s chest before settling on the two of them. “Witcher,” she said in a tone Calanthe would be envious of, “what happened?”

All at once, his meager collection of grunts and glares seemed weak and vapid beneath the weight of all that had gone wrong today. He couldn’t help but look in the direction of where Jaskier had disappeared from view.

Yennefer looked between him and the older woman with a slightly curious expression. “And you are?” she asked Tanis.

Nora pushed her way through the alarmed looking villagers with a broom held in her hands like a bat. Her pretty features clashed oddly with the cold rage simmering in her dark eyes. “Where’s Jaskier?” she bit out.

Grimly, Geralt forced the words he’d been avoiding out of his dry throat. “He’s gone.”

Both of the women went pale, eyes still scanning the yard like they could find Jaskier if they looked hard enough. It sent a bolt of matching grief through his own bone.

The shadow of the brief happiness Jaskier had managed to achieve hung like a shadow over the destroyed clearing. As if they could close their eyes and see the soft smile that had replaced the open laughter of Geralt’s memories with the healing bard of the present. All their efforts to keep him safe, to let him heal, had disappeared the instant they’d left him alone for Stregobor’s allies to rip him away.

Finally, Tanis flicked an assessing glare over Yennefer. “You one of those over-dressed hussies from Aretuza?”

Yennefer bristled. “Geralt. Explain.”

“This is Tanis and Nora,” Geralt said quickly, hoping that if he explained they could move on to finding Jaskier, “They’ve been watching over Jaskier for the last few months while he was recovering.”

Some of Yennefer’s self assurance faltered. “That’s impossible. He’s the Soldier.”

“He is  _ Jaskier _ ,” Tanis snapped, “I don’t know who the fuck this ‘Soldier’ is, but the boy I know wouldn’t hurt anyone that didn’t deserve it.”

“Then why was he trying to kill all of you?”

Geralt cut in before Tanis or Nora took a swing at the mage. “That man ordered him to attack--Stregobor must have made it so others could control him when they needed.”

“Of course he did,” Nora said staunchly, “Jaskier would never willingly attack any of us.” Then she looked at Yennefer and corrected, “ _ Most _ of us.”

“We have to find him before they hurt him again,” Tanis agreed. 

And that quickly, the slight bloom of warmth that came with the humans’ staunch defense of Jaskier dimmed. He didn’t even know who had taken him. When they’d attacked Stregobor’s manor, they had believed that they’d killed all of the men and women responsible for the worst of the sins committed against the bard. He’d thought Jaskier would be  _ safe _ now. 

And all it had taken was a few minutes alone for that peace to be ripped away.

Even worse--Geralt had no idea where to go next. If it were some beast or monster, he hada years of practice hunting and killing to fall back on. Now he didn’t even know the name of the man who’d ripped Jaskier’s consciousness away like it was nothing.

Where could they even begin to search?

He must have said the last question aloud because Yennefer paused in her glaring at Tanis to look almost satisfied with herself. “ _ That _ I can help you with.”

* * *

His name was Dagan.

According to Yennefer, the man had once been a researcher at Ben Aard which explained how he’d met Stregobor. He’d specialized in the genetic and bodily modifications that were used to ensure their mages were physically striking enough to make their way to court. His true passion, however, had been finding a way to strengthen the natural chaos magic that humans could manipulate with the abilities of the nonhuman races.

It took years before the true nature of Dagan had come to life. That had been long enough to mean the deaths of countless elves and half breeds in his cruel experiments. Even that probably wouldn’t be enough to send him from Ben Aard’s lofty halls if it weren’t for the way he’d expanded his experiments to include the noble children who’d been sent there to be trained.

“He was supposed to be killed for his crimes,” Yennefer explained, “but Stregobor must have stepped in to use him for his own purposes.”

Tanis and Nora looked faintly ill at the clinical way the mage had described the bare bones of what had been done to the bard before they’d met him. The older woman’s hand was clenched around her daughter’s in a white knuckled grip that would have been painful if she wasn’t gripping back just as hard. 

“Can he take Jaskier’s mind again?” Geralt asked in a rough voice.

Yennefer had the grace to look apologetic to the small collection of people seated around the scarred table inside the now-damaged inn. They’d sent away the shaken villagers to their own homes with promises to repay their efforts with food in the future. More than a few had lingered until a look from Tanis sent them scurrying away. Nora had gathered a few of the biscuits and eggs from their breakfast menu with the distracted air of someone who needed to stay busy to avoid her own thoughts and let them all settled in before Yennefer began to speak.

“I’m not entirely convinced he ever was released from Stregobor’s control,” she finally answered.

Tanis bristled. “He  _ never _ hurt anyone here. He wouldn’t have hurt anyone today if they hadn’t forced him too.”

“The Soldier was trained well enough that he could have been killing without you ever noticing.”

“And have  _ you _ noticed any random killings, mage? Any shallow graves of missing people in the area?”

Yennefer, to her credit, tilted her head in a slight nod to concede the point.

“Yennefer,” Geralt said gruffly, “I know you think I’ve imagined seeing Jaskier in the Soldier when we fought, but you cannot deny that he has not done anything violent since that day. I was with him all day yesterday and he was tracking me for weeks without ever taking advantage of it.”

She sighed, glancing toward the other women before leaning forward and lowering her voice. “I know that you want to believe that he’s back, Geralt. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again. It would be better for you to believe that he’s gone than go through that again--you barely survived the first time.”

“Jaskier is  _ alive _ , Yen. Trust me,” he pleaded. “He broke their conditioning once, he can do it again.”

For a long moment, violet eyes stared into his, searching for the truth in his words. He met them squarely, trying not to let the desperation overwhelm his fervency. He needed her help if they were going to find Jaskier. 

Already, Jaskier’s time was running out.

“Fine,” she said abruptly and ignored the soft sound of relief he released, “gods help me, but I trust you, Geralt. I’ll help you find your poor little bardling.”

“Do you know where we could find Dagan?”

“If he’s managed to avoid Aretuza for this long, he must have somewhere decent to hide away in. It won’t be easy to flush him out.”

“You can’t tell Tissaia about him,” Geralt cut in. “Aretuza might decide to use them for their own purposes or let Dagan train another. No one can know Jaskier is the Soldier.”

“Tissaia might be inclined to keep his secret if she recognizes the threat of this information becoming public.”

“Tissaia is only concerned with Aretuza and her own power--if she thinks Jaskier is a threat, she’ll kill him.” That thought alone had Geralt tightening his grip on the table until the wood groaned beneath his hands. “I won’t let that happen.”

“Very well,” she conceded, “I can send messages to members of my own network and Tris to see if they’ve heard anything. You should alert your wolves if you can find them. Perhaps they’ve heard something.”

Geralt nodded. Between Eskel, Lamber, and Vesemir, they’ve crossed the Continent following the Path, one of them might be able to give them some clue to finding Dagan. If nothing else, they could help with the battle to reclaim him.

“Until then, all we can do is wait and pray to whatever gods you believe in that they don’t damage ihim in a way we cannot repair.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will probably be two more chapters after this if you haven't given up hope on the happy ending I promised. Next chapter will feature lots of action to make up for this plot building one.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay with this chapter. The real world has been kicking my ass lately. Rest assured I have not forgotten this story or the tormenting I've been giving our boys. Hopefully a longer chapter will help you forgive me. <3

“This isn’t working.”

The disgruntled words barely bled through the thunder of blood in his ears and his gasping breaths.

“Useless.” The voice was familiar as any nightmare now and he was grateful it wasn’t directed at him. “I was told you had talent.”

A scoff. “Whatever you and Stregobor thought up wasn’t talent, it was luck. The creature would never have survived if you hadn’t stumbled across someone with elvish blood.”

Safe beneath his lashes, Jaskier let himself focus on the tremble in his muscles instead of what Dagan’s frustration would mean for him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been trapped in this place, but he was comforted by the knowledge that his body wouldn’t be able to withstand their torture for much longer.

Even better, the mage Dagan had employed seemed to be unable to replicate what Stregobor had. Each time Jaskier felt the slow slide into the darkness that was the Soldier, it didn’t last longer than an hour. It was a devastating level of relief knowing that he wouldn’t be used to kill another person like he had been before. He could still commit acts of violence but there would be none of the extended, bloody missions of his life before.

There was a rattle in his chest now left behind by the damp cell and continued pain he’d been put through. Dagan’s mage didn’t have skill as a healer and their excitement for revenge had practically signed Jaskier’s death warrant. He wouldn’t last more than a few more days at this rate.

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was back in the tiny loft that had been his shelter so long. The fever burning beneath his skin was left behind by the warm body of his Witcher curled behind him. Dagan’s breathing was just Geralt, sleeping through the night. The itch and pull of bruised skin was just a reminder of an evening of lovemaking.

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he would survive this.

If he closed his eyes, he was safe.

“You’re little Witcher has proven himself to be more vexing than even I anticipated,” Dagan growled.

Pulled from his drifting thoughts by the sensation of Dagan leaning against the table Jaskier was bound to, he managed a weak sneer. He couldn’t summon up the same furious rebellion of his past self, but he relished each time Dagan was brought up short by his continued failure to bring back the Soldier.

“I should have had you kill him back at that inn--at least that would have been entertaining.”

Jaskier huffed out a breath, swallowing hard and forcing his mangled voice to work. “It would just be another thing for you to fail at.”

The slap was hard enough to send his head snapping to one side, but the pain was meaningless now. 

Dagan grabbed him by his hair and forced his head up close enough to feel the doctor’s breath against his skin. Milky grey eyes were narrowed in fury at his continued rebellion. “You may think you are achieving something with your continued disobedience, but it’s only a matter of time before you break.”

“He’s a liability, Dagan,” the mage cut in. “We should just get rid of him.”

“It is  _ my _ creation!” Dagan roared back, turning away from Jaskier to focus on the other man. “The Soldier is the culmination of  _ years _ of experimentation and research. It will change the face of war forever--”   
  


“The Witcher and his allies are asking questions now. They know you took him. If they find us, all of this will be for nothing.”

Jaskier felt his breath stutter in his chest. Geralt was looking for him. He knew Jaskier was alive now. He wouldn’t leave him here to suffer. It made his heart beat fiercely with something dangerously close to hope.

“That  _ Witcher _ is the cause of all of this. Somehow he broke all of the Soldier’s conditioning. If I could just--”

The mage made an irritated sound. “You don’t have time for any more research. The Soldier has failed. You should cut your losses and start over.”

“What do you want me to do then, huh? Just kill it after all the time and effort I’ve funneled into this program?”

“So sell it.” Jaskier and Dagan both looked at the mage in surprise. The man crossed his arms over his chest and gestured to Jaskier with a single dismissive hand. “The Soldier will follow orders if you use the trigger words--that makes it useful to anyone looking for a killer or a thug. Plenty of people would pay good money for such a thing.”

Dagan paused, looking thoughtful. “With that sort of money, I could start over with a better, less damaged host.”

“Geralt will still hunt you down,” Jaskier bit out, smirking at both of them with mock bravado, “No one hunts monsters quite like a Witcher. He won’t stop until he’s destroyed you and everything you’ve--”

His words were cut off by another vicious backhand that made his mouth bloom with the iron tang of blood. 

The mage looked annoyed by the display of Dagan’s temper, but didn’t comment. “Selling it will force the Wticher to choose between hunting us or hunting the Soldier. Which do you think he’ll choose?”

Jaskier glared up at Dagan through the swelling in his eye and saw the moment the doctor made his choice.

“Set up the auction.”

* * *

The first day is a lesson in torment.

The second is even worse.

On the third, Geralt’s descent into madness was momentarily offset by the arrival of Vesemir to the tavern.

The older Witcher looked exhausted from what must have been a mad dash to meet Geralt after Yennefer’s messages reached him. It was an obvious reminder of his old trainer’s affection for him and the child deep within him wanted to throw his arms around him. Instead, he stood and helped Vesemir settle his packs and cloak onto the table in the section of the tavern that had become their meeting area.

“Any news from the others?” Vesemir asked him.

Geralt shook his head to avoid the way his throat went tight at the reminder.

The older Witcher put a hand on his shoulder in a show of support. “Lambert and Eskel are running through their contacts to see if anyone might recognize Jaskier or the mage who took him. It won’t take long before we get a location.”

Geralt was saved from answering by Tanis’ pushing through the swinging doors of the kitchen and approaching the two of them. There were deep lines of worry carved into her face that hadn’t been there when Geralt had first met her. He doubted that she’d slept more than a few hours since her adopted child had been taken.

“Is this the Witcher trainer you were waiting for?” she asked Geralt.

Vesemir gave her a gentle smile and nodded his head in her direction. “I am Vesemir, good lady.”

“Huh,” Tanis said thoughtfully, raking her eyes over the other man, “I thought he’d be taller.”

Vesemir made a shocked sound, but was interrupted by Yennefer sweeping into the room with her usual flair for the dramatic. “Enough chatter. We have work to do.”

He just had to hope they wouldn't be too late.

* * *

Somehow, he continues to be surprised each time he opens his eyes and is reintroduced to the singular agony of knowing he has passed another day without any answers or any sign of Jaskier.

After so many years of life without any real interest in the passage of time aside from noting the seasons. In spring, the monsters of the deep woods and mountains came out of their dens, hungry and hunting for easy prey. In summer, it was drowners and other pack hunters seeking victims that wouldn’t require additional effort on their parts. And in autumn he would begin moving back in the direction of Kaer Morhen and home. 

Once, that schedule would have also included time to see Jsakier off to Oxenfurt before it became too cold and finding routes that included regular inns and taverns large enough to house an audience worthy of the bard’s talents.

Now Geralt rolled out of the bed that still smelled faintly of cedar and meadowgrass and tried not to think about how often he woke up reaching for a man who had only spent one night there with him. Tanis had offered him space in the tavern while they waited for some clue in their search, but he craved the closeness of being in the space Jaskier had claimed for himself while he reclaimed his own memories. 

Geralt was careful not to touch the lute--scarred and not nearly as pretty as the one the bard had once protected--but he touches the collections of trinkets that line the space. A lark’s feather sat beside a pale white scrap of a wolf’s pelt that was only a shade darker than Geralt’s own hair. Next to a small, cracked mirror was a wooden comb that made Geralt think of how many nights the bard had spent meticulously combing through knots and braiding back Geralt’s hair into neat twists. The Witcher had been careful never to mention after the first time Jaskier had smoothed his fingers through his hair how often he used to just hack it short when it became a nuisance.

He couldn’t imagine going back to the loneliness of before having Jaskier in his life. 

In the tavern, there was a pall over the once bustling space. The villagers had limped in slowly over the last few days, eyes darting around like scared rabbits in the wake of a hawk. To their credit, most of them asked after Jaskier with hopeful expressions. None of them had needed any kind of convincing that Jaskier’s attack hadn’t been by choice. It was clear that even quiet and shy, Jaskier had found his way into the hearts of this sleepy village.

Nora pushed a warm plate of food and tea into his hands as soon as he stepped through the door. He nodded his thanks, but his eyes were already scanning the room for the person who could never belong in this simple space.

Yennefer.

The mage was sitting next to the empty fireplace with her hands curled over a small xenovox, frowning down at the map she’d spread over the table. Her clothing was more haphazard than he was used to seeing from someone who used her looks in her arsenal of weapons. Simple black leather pants were tailored to flow seamlessly into matching boots and make the white of her shirt cause her skin to glow. Unfortunately, that only heightened the dark circles beneath her eyes.

She looked up when he approached and he watched her lips go flat.

No good news then. 

“Has anyone responded?” he asked.

“Tris says she hasn’t found anyone who knew Dagan was alive, let alone where he might be hiding. Lambert and Eskel are still searching, but I doubt they’ll be able to match the information networks of Aretuza.”

Geralt glared at her. “I told you not to speak to Tissaia.”

Yennefer waved away his concern with one hand. “Aretuza and Tissaia are still scrambling to recover after the battle with Nilfgaard. I took the liberty of relieving her of a few key seals so I could send out letters to useful allies without her permission.”

He grunted, looking over the map and the areas she’d circled with white chalk lines. “What are the circles for?”

“Areas of interest based on what Istredd told me about the man’s past haunts. I’m trying to see if he would return to old hunting grounds.”

Humming an answer under his breath, Geralt surveyed the map without acknowledging the sound of Vesemir entering with two mugs of hot tea in his hands. The second was pressed into the hands of an exhausted looking Tanis sitting near the bar. The two of them had been dancing around each other in a strange sort of courtship that reminded Geralt of two cats circling one another. Jaskier would have loved it.

Forcing his thoughts back to the present, Geralt looked at the collection of circles on the map with a critical eye against his own knowledge of the men they were hunting. Mentally he discounted the ring around Kovir and Cintra. Cintra’s population was still decimated by Nilfgaard’s attack--it would be much more difficult to keep a low profile there. Kovir was too far away from any of Stregobor’s allies and Dagan wouldn’t be able to access any materials he needed for his experiments.

“Why is Cairgorn circled?” Even now, the reminder of the place where he’d first lost Jaskier was still a jagged source of pain. He breathed through it with the painful ease of practice.

Yennefer barely glanced up from the pile of letters she was sorting through. “One of Tris’ informants thinks that’s where the Soldier was first created. Dagan had a workshop there at Stregobor’s summer home.” She tapped a small X just off the main path.

Geralt felt his hands tremble at his sides. The Reavers must have taken him right off the mountain and into Dagan’s clutches. Maybe they hadn’t even known who they had until Stregobor recognized him. Maybe Jaskier had said something that had given away his relationship to the Witcher. Either way, this was the place where Jaskier had been systematically destroyed to pay for Geralt’s sins.

“Have you checked it?” he managed with only a fraction of the urgency he felt. “How can you be sure he didn’t return there?”

“Tris went with a few of Foltest’s men as soon as she found out where it was, but it had been abandoned. Dagan probably moved all of his research into the manor you destroyed when Stregobor took on the Soldier project.”

Scowling, Geralt tried not to think about the clock that felt like it was counting down in his mind. It had already been a week since Jaskier had been taken. A week for Dagan to torture and rip away all of the memories Jaskier had fought so hard to reclaim. A week to suffer and beg for Geralt to find him. A week to slowly lose hope…

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Yennefer looked up at him, something close to sympathy in her eyes. “Geralt, you need to--”

“Geralt!”

Both of them turned in surprise at the shout in time to see Lambert shoulder his way into the tavern, followed closely after by Eskel. Geralt got to his feet as his brothers crossed the nearly empty tavern to stand in front of him. They were covered in road dust and sweat as evidence of their sprint to reach Geralt’s side. That and the gleam of excitement in their eyes was enough to make Geralt’s blood thunder in his veins.

“We think we’ve found something,” Eskel said. “Lambert’s Cat--”

“He is not  _ my _ Cat. He’s a friend,” Lambert interrupted with a glare.

“The Cat Lambert may or may not be in a relationship with-” All of them ignored Lambert’s annoyed sound at Eskel’s sarcasm, “-said there’s rumors of the Soldier coming back into play.”

“So they managed to reprogram him again?” Yennefer asked over the sound of Geralt’s snarl. She shot him a look but didn’t hesitate to continue. “We have to know if the Soldier is going to start killing people. He might come after you again.”

“Jaskier would never hurt one of us willingly, you bitch,” Tanis growled from where she was standing near Vesemir. Yennefer growled at the insult, but the old innkeeper looked less than impressed with the threat of violence simmering in the air. “If you’d really known him before they took him, you’d know that too.”

“What was done to Jaskier was a tragedy, but it doesn’t make him less of a threat!”

Geralt stepped closer to Lambert, ignoring the argument behind him in favor of focusing on his brother. “Did they say where the Soldier was going to make a kill?”

“That’s the thing,” Lambert replied, “There was no mention of a target.”

He frowned. “Then how could they know the Soldier is active again?”

“There hasn’t been an attack because he hasn’t been given a target yet.”

“Then how do they know the Soldier is back in Dagan’s hands?”

Lambert paused long enough to look over at Eskel with atypical hesitation before he handed over an envelope made of thick vellum. “Because they’re going to sell the Soldier to the highest bidder.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that there would be two more chapters, but it might be three. Either way, we are gearing up for the end now.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter and a new character to fall in love with. 
> 
> In other worse, meet Aiden. :)

The auction was designed with a rescue in mind.

Dagan chose men and women who were known for their cruelty as well as their deep pockets. People who would be uninterested in the morality of forcing a man to do their bidding and continue the deadly legend of the Soldier. Drug runners. Gang leaders. Members of the shady mercenary groups that made a living erasing problems for a price. Men and women who wouldn’t hesitate to use the Soldier to continue his reign of carnage.

Each bidder was only allowed two guards, armed with a dagger each. Mages were not allowed. Only a select few were given the coordinates of where to meet for the auction of the infamous Soldier. Once there, they would be given further instructions.

“The mage working with Dagan will probably be there to portal them to a secondary location,” Yennefer commented, “That way they can ensure that none of the bidders attempt to double cross them or start a conflict with someone else.”

Bidders were required to attend with half the price they were willing to pay on their person. The second half would be delivered and exchanged for the second half of the trigger words needed to keep Jaskier under control. The Soldier himself would be handed over with the first payment.

That description alone was enough to make Geralt snarl and throw himself away from the table to pace away from Yennefer and the other Witchers. Tanis watched him stalk across the floor, her knuckles showing white against the tabletop.

“Geralt, you have to calm yourself if you’re going to be able to save him,” Vesemir said softly. “They’re counting on you not to be able to think straight.”

“If they know you’re coming for him, he will too,” Eskel added.

The thought of Jaskier hurt, helpless, and waiting for him made him grit his teeth until his jaw ached. It was a bitter comfort to know that Jaskier was alive and captive instead of dead at the bottom of a mountain. Dagan would keep him alive so long as he was useful, but being useful meant burying the core of Jaskier’s personality beneath the Soldier.

Geralt looked at Lambert. “Can your Cat get us into the auction?”

“Aiden got the invitation from one of his clients. He could probably pose as a buyer, but there is no way they wouldn’t recognize you if you tried to tag along.” Lambert glared at Eskel’s sly smirk at the mention of the other Witcher from the Cat School and crossed his muscular arms over his chest in a defensive move. 

“The only thing we have on our side right now is that Dagan won’t recognize every person who was invited,” Eskel said, “Aiden could get in and maybe two others if they aren’t known by Dagan.”

“Could you put a glamour on Geralt?” Nora asked Yennefer.

The mage shook her head. “The mage that’s with Dagan would notice it immediately. They’d be looking for something like that.”

“That leaves Yennefer out as well.” Vesemir stepped closer to look at the invitation on the table. “No way would they risk another mage on the scene even if you hadn’t been there when they took the bard.”

“I’m not staying here,” Geralt growled. “I’m coming with you.”

“You going would just make this even more unlikely to succeed,” Yennefer argued. “You’re too well known.”

“If Jaskier has become the Soldier again, I’m the only one who can stop him.”

“You’re too emotionally invested. You’d let him kill you before you actually stopped him.”

Geralt’s silence was answer enough to Yennefer’s sharp retort.

Vesemir glanced at his pupil. “How did you recover him the last time?”

“I killed Stregobor.” Geralt closed his eyes for a beat, seeing the image of the screaming Soldier in his mind as though it was waiting for him. “Without Stregobor to give him orders, he faltered. When I stopped--when I stopped fighting back, he started to break through his programming.”

_ You’re my friend. _

_ Liar! You’re my enemy! _

“Only after he beat you bloody enough that you almost died,” Yennefer interrupted.

_ I loved you. _

“He pulled me from the rubble and then he ran. If he wanted to kill me, he had plenty of opportunities.”

“Jaskier chose to stay here and avoid any kind of violence,” Nora said staunchly. Tanis nodded in agreement. “The only time he ever attacked someone was to protect me.”

Some of the rage throbbing beneath his skin eased at their defense of the bard. They had been good to Jaskier when Geralt hadn’t even known if he was still alive. They’d kept him safe. Safer than a life with a Witcher. 

If only Geralt had never found him here. Maybe then Jaskier would still be safe.

“He’ll always be a danger if they have a way to trigger the Soldier.” Yennefer cut in. “All it took was a few seconds and Dagan was able to force Jaskier to do whatever he wanted.”

“He forced  _ the Soldier  _ to do whatever he wanted,” Nora snapped. “Not Jaskier.”

Yennefer shrugged. 

“Can you fix whatever they put into his mind?” Geralt asked.

“It would take time… If Dagan was still searching for him, there would always be a chance that he would come back and restart the Soldier. Even then it’s a long shot.”

“I’ll take care of Dagan.” The man was owed death more than once for what he’d done.

Eskel tapped the invitation on the table. “All of that is moot if we can’t get to the bard before they sell him off to some sick bastard.”

“There’s got to be some kind of charm or spell that could disguise Geralt and another one of us from the mage,” Lambert said.

There was a derisive snort before Tanis nudged the brawny warriors out of her way to stand at the head of the table. “You forget that the rest of the Continent doesn’t have all your fancy magics. We can disguise you.”

“Good enough to confuse Dagan?” Yennefer asked with an arched brow.

“Honey, how do you think I got my second husband?”

* * *

The two women herded Geralt back to the rooms that were rented out to guests and set him to work hauling hot water from the kitchen into the deep tub. He imagined the task was more about keeping him busy than a need for him to bathe, but he didn’t bother to argue. Anything was better than listening to the other Witchers debate various plans over and over again.

At least with the women he was sure that they would do everything in their power to bring Jaskier back alive. It was the only option they would accept.

Nora disappeared after the tub was in place to go back to the village to hunt down a tincture that would temporarily darken his eyes from their iconic golden color.

Once the tub was full, Tanis passed him an old shaving razor that smelled of the oil used to clean it and cedar from the trunk it was stored in. He was willing to bet that it had belonged to her husband, but he didn’t ask for details and she didn’t offer.

“Make sure you get all of that off your face,” she ordered, “Then I’ll give you a haircut.” Geralt’s hand flew to his long hair instinctively and Tanis rolled her eyes. “It’ll grow back soon enough. Can’t have them recognizing you because of your ‘silver flowing locks.’”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at the description.

She shrugged. “My boy hated when the traveling bards would sing songs about the infamous ‘White Wolf.’ It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots between the Witcher in the songs and the man Jaskier sometimes talked about.”

He stared down at the water without seeing, torn between the warmth at the thought of Jaskier remembering him and the cold that had enveloped him from the moment the portal had closed behind him. 

“Did…” he licked his lips and forced himself to continue to say the words that felt like a curse, “did I make the right choice coming here?”

Tanis sighed and toyed with the toweling in her hands. When she spoke, there was none of the hesitation that had tailored Geralt’s words. “When Jaskier came here, he was...lost. He jumped at every noise. He hid knives and weapons away in the loft and patrolled the town late at night. It took months before he trusted my girl and me. Even longer before we learned anything about him.” She paused and then met Geralt’s eyes, “Do you know what the first thing he told me about his life before?”

He shook his head.

“‘He loved me,’ he said. ‘He loved me,’” she sucked in a shuddering breath and continued, “As soon as his memories came back, he wanted to find you. Witcher or not, Butcher or not, Jaskier never doubted that you would do the right thing. He never regretted going to find you. Don’t diminish his choice by doubting it now.”

* * *

A few hours later, a brunette a few shades lighter than Jaskier’s stepped down the staircase into the main room. His hair had been trimmed neatly in a style that was popular in Novigrad and was short enough for it to curl loosely over his forehead. He raked his fingers through it in a nervous movement, unused to the shorter strands after so long.

Yennefer’s eyes went wide at the sight of him before she grinned at Tanis. “You’re wasted in the tavern industry, Tanis. I know of quite a few groups that would be interested in hiring someone so talented in disguise.”

“They could learn it easily enough if they ask their local harlots,” Tanis replied with a secret smile. “That’s where I picked it up.”

Geralt and Vesemir gaped at the older woman, trying to sort out the myriad of strange facts they’d learned about her past.

A double tap on the repaired door frame was enough to distract them from their surprise as the door was shouldered open by Lambert and another man at his heels. The stranger was tall, lanky despite the obvious power displayed in his near silent entrance. Even Geralt’s enhanced hearing couldn’t pick out the sounds of his tread on the old wooden floorboards. He didn’t need to see the medallion hidden beneath his clothing to know who he was.

A Cat.

“This is Aiden,” Lambert introduced with a gesture. “He’s got the information for the meeting place.”

Aiden gave them a rakish grin, dark eyes twinkling beneath dark brows. His hair was tied back in a messy bun that looked tousled from traveling. Simple, but well made clothing made him passable as a merchant’s son or a traveling lesser noble’s son were it not for the familiar blades hidden within his clothing. 

“So which of you is going to be my escort?”

Geralt stepped forward, still assessing the other man. “I’m going.”

“Me too.” All of them looked up in surprise when Lambert spoke, but he only shrugged, “Dagan might recognize Eskel from the attack on Stregobor’s manor and Vesemir can’t pull of a mercenary look--don’t growl at me, old man, you know it’s true.”

“So it was you that took out Stregobor, huh?” Aiden asked Geralt, “Messy business, that.”

Geralt growled. “My only regret is killing him quickly.”

Aiden gave him a sharp smile. “Careful, Wolf. Someone might mistake you for a Cat.”

“Why is a Cat being so helpful?” Vesemir interrupted. “Your school isn’t exactly known for helping others without a price.”

“Oh, I have my own reasons for helping you get into the auction,” the other Witcher said with an easy shrug, “After all, I’ve accepted a contract to kill the Soldier.”

In the next instant, three things happened at once:

First, Tanis gasped and dropped the pitcher she’d been using to refill the mugs scattered around the table.

Second, Lambert made a choking sound in the back of his throat, eyes wide on Geralt and his hands outstretched with a plea forming on his lips.

Neither of those were enough to halt the final movement in the three part dance. 

Geralt cleared the last steps in one leap. There was a roar echoing in the room that he didn’t recognize aside from the burn in his throat. He was still unarmed--safe inside a tavern full of Witchers and a sorceress--but experience taught him that wouldn’t be necessary.

He would kill anyone who dared to threaten his bard.

The Cat reacted quickly enough to pull out one of his knives before Geralt was on him, throwing him bodily to the ground. They rolled, the knife carving a burning line across Geralt’s side even as his fist snapped Aiden’s head to the side with a vicious crack. Their training showed through with each brutal movement, ignoring their pain in favor of meting out more to their opponent.

Then they were both bodily hauled backward, still lashing out at their target even as strong arms forced them back. 

“He’s trying to kill Jaskier!” Geralt snarled at Eskel and Vesemir who only tightened his hold on his former student.

Lambert forced the Cat further away from Geralt, pushing a hand against his chest to keep him away. “Fucking hell, Geralt! He came here to help us!”

“He took a contract to kill the Soldier!”

Aiden spat out a mouthful of blood on the floor, earning a scowl from Tanis. “Hell of a welcome, Lam.”

“I won’t let you kill him,” Geralt hissed. “I’ll die first.”

“Always so dramatic, you Wolves,” the other Witcher grumbled. “No sense of theatrical timing.”

“Get to the fucking point, Aiden,” Lambert growled. “They won’t be able to hold him back forever.”

The Cat sighed and held his hands up in a gesture of peace, letting his knife fall to the ground with a thud. “Touchy,” he said, “I guess I could have been more specific. I was hired to make sure the Soldier was out of the game.”

“What game?” Geralt spat.

“The Great Game. The constant competition for power among the nobility on the Continent. They pay men like me to take out any competitors in ways that can be disguised as happenstance. A heart attack. A fall. A wild animal attack…--” His grin was vicious. “All part of the game. What  _ isn’t _ a part of our little slice of darkness, is an assassin that is incapable of feeling pain. One who doesn’t stop to rest or eat until the job is done and isn’t tied to any political figure.”

“He feels pain,” he snarled back, “He just isn’t allowed to stop without punishment.”

Aiden nodded his head in concession of the point. “Those in power don’t want to risk the Soldier going back onto the streets. He has to be stopped.”

_ “And you expect me to just let you?” _

“I expect you to use the brain in that pretty head of yours to realize that I’m your only chance of getting your bard free from all of this.” Aiden’s teasing tone disappeared beneath the weight of his words and Geralt could see Lambert pleading with him in the corner of his eyes to listen. “They’ll believe me if I say the Soldier is dead--I have a reputation, after all. We get in there, find your bard, and get him away before someone worse buys him. Then all I have to do is prove he’s dead and I can collect my money while you snuggle together in a hideaway of your choosing.”

Geralt glowered. “Why would I ever trust you?”

“Geralt…” Eskel interrupted and he turned to glare at the Witcher at his side. “We don’t have a choice.”

“The hell we don’t.”

“Geralt,” the warrior repeated with a quick glance at Tanis, “they took Nora.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Aiden and I already love him as a character. Love me some chaotic good personalities.
> 
> Also the 'He loved me' line really killed me.
> 
> Thanks for reading and a special thanks to those who take the time to leave kudos and comments! I love them all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to get bad before it gets better.

The sound of a key scraping in the lock jerked him out of his doze and had him on his feet in seconds. It sent the manacle around his ankle clattering across the dirty floor and set the irritated skin beneath it ablaze. Still, Jaskier refused to allow himself to be taken without a fight. This might be his last chance before his mind was lost forever.

_ Forgive me, Geralt. _

It had been days since anyone had ventured down into the dungeon cells carved into the pit of the mountain besides tossing an occasional scrap of bread or meat through the bars. This far down there was little light and he’d been forced to feel around on his hands and knees to find what little food he was given. It was that or listen to the creatures creeping through the dark beside him eat it all. Sometimes even the threat of his larger body wasn’t enough to send them away.

The enhancements Stregobor had carved into his bones became a gift and a curse in the darkness there. He wasn’t able to see anything more than the barest dark shapes around him. His ears seemed to work overtime in place of his eyes, eager to interpret each little sound as a new threat. Sleep was nearly impossible--too vulnerable when he couldn’t even tell the dimensions of the room he was in.

Whatever benefits he’d received from avoiding Dagan’s ‘treatments’ were fading away in the damp, cold air and long periods trapped in utter darkness and the lack of proper food. He’d been forced to press his mouth to the damp walls in order to get a few drops of water to wet his chapped lips and throat. His body ached all over from the injuries left behind by Dagan’s torture that he didn’t have the calories to heal. It was getting harder to remember the things he’d fought so hard to bring back. Hard to remember who he really was.

Sometimes, it was all he could do to remember he was still human.

Worse were the moments when he woke up with nothing in his mind but the darkness around him. He would stare into the empty space in front of him until the first stirrings of memory flitted through the broken pieces of his mind.

It always started with the man with the silver hair. No, not a man, he corrected. A Witcher. The two swords he carried were as important to his identity as the brown mare who followed beside him with wary eyes. In his mind, the Witcher came with brief impressions. The smell of leather and sweat. A quicksilver smile--there and gone before he could do more than marvel at it. The swoop of adrenaline and anticipation that flooded his bloodstream each time golden eyes met his own.

On the days when he couldn’t remember his name, let alone what his features looked like, he always, always remembered the Witcher. Even better were the moments where his lips shaped the name that dropped like honey from his lips, familiar and sweet.

Geralt.

With the name came more details that dropped like breadcrumbs to lead back to his own name. Jaskier would curl tighter around himself, arms wrapped around his middle like he could press the details of who he was deeper inside of himself. He thought of the last morning--the  _ only _ morning--where they’d curled together on his bed. He imagined it was Geralt’s arm wrapped around his waist like he could anchor him to the earth, body curved over his back like a shield. Jaskier had laid there for hours before he’d stirred, listening to the even breathing that brushed intimately over the back of his neck, marveling at the sensation of the warrior behind him being relaxed enough to sleep so deeply in his presence, and clenching his hands into fists to keep them from tracing over the bare skin of Geralt’s arms.

Now, he ached to return to the sleepy peace of that morning. He could have summoned his courage and finally,  _ finally _ spoken the words he knew were true. The fact that was as key to his identity as anything else.

_ I love you, Geralt. _

Jaskier would never know if Geralt was telling the truth in Stregobor’s manor or if it was just another way to break through his conditioning. He would never be able to thank Tanis and Nora for trusting a broken man to be more than a monster. Hell, he wouldn’t even be able to ask Yennefer to care for Geralt when Jaskier disappeared once again, this time for good. He had so many regrets now.

With a heavy sigh, he felt the calluses on his fingertips that came from years of playing the lute he no longer owned. They were different from the newer scars and marks left behind by the trainings led by men whose faces he’d already forgotten. Men he didn’t  _ want _ to remember.

If he was lucky, his throat wouldn’t be too dry to fill the space with mumbled lyrics--some remembered, some made up. He sang bawdy songs he’d overheard in Tanis’ tavern and even a few that emerged from murky memories of his life before it had been stolen from him. He recited events and memories to the tune of ‘The Ballad of the White Wolf’ and ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher.’

He was in the middle of trying to remember the bridge to ‘The Ballad of the Lion Club of Cintra’ when the sound of footsteps moving closer interrupted his thoughts. By now, he knew that it was far too soon for them to be feeding him again which probably indicated the visit was more sinister in nature. Getting to his feet was difficult, but worth the subtle comfort of being better prepared to defend himself if needed. He could hear something being dragged alongside the person and the grunts of effort it took to keep it moving.

Then the door was opening and he was squinting against the sudden light.

Two shadows--one limp and twitching against the larger--were outlined for a moment in the doorway before the smaller one was tossed bodily into the cell and into Jaskier. He grunted at the sudden weight and fell back against the wall behind him, arms suddenly full. The scent of fresh blood nearly overwhelms the subtler smell of freshly washed cotton and fear-laced sweat.

“A treat for you, Soldier,” the familiar voice of Dagan’s mage was jarring after so many hours? days? trapped in the cells, “to ensure your cooperation.”

Jaskier attempted to get back to his feet, but he was too weak to manage it before the door was slammed shut and he was back in the darkness again. Only this time, there were two sets of breathing.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to find his voice. “H--hello?”

There was no response from the other person and Jaskier reached out to gingerly trace his finger over their face and hair. He felt the tacky residue of blood from the head wound that must have been what they used to subdue them. The long hair draped over the arm he still was using to cradle them made him guess that she was a female even before an accidental brush over her chest confirmed it.

“Can you hear me?” he asked again, trying not to think about the odds that they might just toss in a dead body to fuck with him. “Please don’t die.”

Still silence.

Carefully, he settled her on the ground beside him, leaning her against his chest so that she wouldn’t be forced to lay on the cold ground. In the dark and without any way to treat her injuries, there was little he could do for her now but hope. 

Licking his lips, Jaskier summoned his failing voice and began to sing softly into the darkness, 

_“Your voice it carries over_

_The hubbub and the hum_

_And it paints the sky and circles high_

_Like the beating of a drum._

_You will scream ‘I won’t forget you,’_

_But I’ll cover my cold ears_

_It cannot be a lie,_

_ If no-one hears. “ _

* * *

By the time he heard a change in the rhythm of the slow breaths against his chest, his voice was almost hoarse and he’d resorted to humming a meaningless tune. He brushed her hair away from her face and tried not to think about what it meant for Dagan to bring another person in here.

“Nnngh?” she mumbled, stirring faintly against him.

“Shh, you’re alright,” Jaskier soothed weakly, “You’re going to be okay.”

“Where am I?” The woman sat up abruptly and he imagined her frowning into the darkness. “Why can’t I see anything?”

“You’re in a cell--I’m not sure where though. They haven’t exactly told me.”

Light fingers abruptly brushed over his face and he forced himself to remain still. Then, “J--Jaskier?”

That quickly, understanding filled him in a sickly rush. He felt his stomach twist in a sickening lurch even as his hands were reaching out. “Oh gods,  _ Nora _ .”

Nora leaned into his arms, wrapping her own around him in a fierce hug. His lungs filled with the familiar scent of fresh bread and  _ home _ and he  _ hated _ himself for how tightly he clung to her. 

“Are you okay? We’ve been looking all over for you!” she said urgently, “We were so afraid of what they might have done to you.”

“That doesn’t matter--” He would suffer a thousand years with Dagan if he could somehow get Nora out of this hellhole, “-- _ What are you doing here? _ ”

“That asshole attacked me when I was going into the village and brought me here. We’ve been trying to come up with a way to get you out of here for days. Geralt will be so relieved that you’re okay-”

“Geralt knows where I am?” The thought was overwhelming.

He felt her nod against his shoulder and lowered her voice until it was barely a whisper. “Lambert’s friend found out about the auction and we’ve been trying to find a way to break you out before they sold you off to someone worse.”

His throat went tight and vulnerable at the thought of Geralt still trying to find him even after everything he’d done. The stilted memories of flesh and muscle breaking beneath his fists while golden eyes pleaded with him to stop. How many times would he destroy Geralt before the Witcher finally accepted that Jaskier was broken beyond repair? How long before Geralt was killed for Jaskier’s sins?

“You should have all stayed away.”

“W-what? Jaskier, of course we had to save you. They  _ hurt _ you and-”

Jaskier gently pushed away the hands clinging to his ruined shirt. “As long as Dagan knows there are people searching for me, he’ll keep targeting you. The fact that you’re here is proof of that!”

“Jask, you can’t seriously think we would ever leave you here to  _ suffer _ ?” Her voice sounded as hurt as it was surprised, “Even if you didn’t trust us, you have to know that the Witcher would never abandon you!”

“Maybe he should have.”

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long he waited in the dark for the footsteps to return. It was long enough for Nora to give up on arguing with him to change his mind. Her exhaustion was deep enough that she’d huddled miserably against him, trying to absorb as much heat and comfort from him. 

It was like she could already feel him slipping away from her.

Jaskier added that knowledge to the long list of regrets and horrors that lived like thorns beneath his skin. Each movement made them dig a little deeper, matching the scars in his mind. He wished he could go back to the moments before Nora’s arrival when he only had to worry about clinging to his humanity as long as he could. Now, all he could think about was how he could keep her from falling into the same darkness that would claim him.

There was only one reason for Dagan to risk returning to the area where Geralt and Yennefer were to kidnap Nora was to use her against him. The ‘treatments’ Stregobor and Dagan had created weren’t working--even if he could still feel the odd entity that was the Soldier lurking within his mind. If they wanted to sell the Soldier to whatever cruel fuck bought him at auction, they had to find a way to keep Jaskier under control. Taking Nora proved two things: that Jaskier could never escape without risking the lives of those he loved and that no one was safe.

He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the cold stone wall, trying to concentrate against the knowledge that he was running out of time. Then, he reached out toward the part of his brain that he hated most.

The Soldier’s presence was a cold weight at the base of his skull, waiting for the moment when it would be called forward to drown Jaskier beneath its own. The longer he remained away from Stregobor and Dagan’s treatments the more distinct their personalities seemed to become. Where Jaskier’s mind tended to be emotionally driven--distracted by impressions and half finished lyrics--the Soldier’s was primitive. Focused. It was constantly assessing the area around him for threats, using each of the enhancements Stregobor had embedded in him like weapons in his arsenal. It never rested, never relaxed.

In the months at Tanis and Nora’s tavern, Jaskier and the Soldier had fallen into a fragile truce. Neither could exist fully without the other and they would destroy each other if they remained at odds. The Soldier was content to remain in the peripheries, calmed by the continued peace of the simple life they’d built there. The only time he’d pressed against the boundaries Jaskier had enforced was the night he’d heard Nora being attacked. In that moment, they had merged together--eager to protect the members of their new family.

Geralt’s arrival had been the next moment of tension between the two halves of his broken mind. The Soldier saw the Witcher as a potential threat, an anomaly in its programming. It remembered their fight in Stregobor’s manor as the first crack in its control over Jaskier’s body. Jaskier had been adamant that Geralt was a friend, someone special, but it had still taken days of trailing along behind Geralt and Roach before the Soldier had agreed.

_ Mate _ , the Soldier had whispered in his mind the night they’d fallen asleep in the hay scented loft.  _ Ally _ .

_ We have to protect them, _ Jaskier thought desperately now. You  _ have to protect him. _

The Soldier stirred, listening to the footsteps coming closer.  _ They want to take us away. _

_ They’ll kill Nora if we stay--then they’ll go after Geralt. _

The sound of the key in the lock was softer now--almost as if the person on the other side didn’t want to wake up Nora. He took it as his cue to to gently settle Nora on the ground, running his hand over her hair one last time before making sure she was still asleep and getting to his feet.

The cuff on his ankle made a dry slithering sound that he was careful to muffle to avoid waking her. He held his breath until her breathing returned to the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. 

Then he watched the door to the cell open.

Dagan’s mage was outlined against the light in the hallway for a long moment. “Are you ready to cooperate, Soldier?” 

“How do I know you’ll let her go?” Jaskier asked, barely resisting the urge to look down at Nora one last time.

He would do this for her.

“I am a man of my word,” the mage said with a hint of anger, “Dagan won’t have any use for her.”

“Swear it.”

There was a pause before Jaskier’s nostrils flared at the brief hint of ozone that filled the air. The scent of magic made the Soldier roil anxiously beneath his skin, but Jaskier fought against the urge to sink beneath it. Not until he was sure Nora and the others would be safe.

“I swear the girl will be returned to where she was found unharmed when the auction is complete.”

Relief mixed with the bitter taste of fear in his mouth, but he managed a nod. The mage reached into his pocket and tossed a key to the cuff around Jaskier’s ankle. He caught it with numb fingers and crouched down to unlock it under the mage’s watchful eyes.

_ Forgive me, Geralt. _

There was no comfort in the release of the weight falling freely to the ground. Nora stirred, but didn’t wake--no doubt under the influence of the potion-laced water that had been delivered a few hours ago. Dagan had been careful to take away all the reasons Jaskier might have fought harder to escape. With Nora asleep, she couldn’t beg him to stay.

_ Don’t forget. Please don’t let me forget him again. _

“It’s time, Soldier.”

The Soldier stood and walked out the door.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me in the comments. ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take heed--the end is near.

“This is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done.”

“Shut the fuck up, Lambert.”

“Really,  _ really _ fucking dumb.”

Geralt stared at the empty clearing around him and tried not to give into the urge to pick another fight with Aiden and Lambert in order to put an end to their constant bickering.

They’d been waiting at the location Aiden’s informant had indicated for nearly a full day. Both Lambert and Geralt were wearing stolen uniforms from the Red Guard, a mercenary group that Aiden was known to work with on occasion. If pressed, Aiden would claim that they were his backup while he made a bid on behalf of his current employer. They all carried a portion of more gold than Geralt would make in a year in the packs strapped to their backs.

Geralt’s hair was still the tawny brown Tanis had dyed it and Lambert had let his beard grow in enough to cover some of the worst of the scars marking his face. They’d given up their swords for the daggers strapped to their belt. He still felt dangerously exposed, but it was worth it.

_ Jaskier _ was worth it.

Not only was Jaskier relying on him, Nora was too. Dagan had sent his soldiers into town to grab her as soon as the Witchers had become distracted by their plans to find the Soldier before he could be sold. He couldn’t even think about the sound Tanis made when she found out that her daughter was gone. He didn’t want to imagine why they wanted her. Not when the  _ best _ option was that Dagan was using her to manipulate Jaskier into doing something irreversible.

He tightened his fingers around the hilt of his dagger and tried to ignore the panic spiraling in his mind. What if Aiden’s information wasn’t correct? They’d risked everything on this one chance to find where Dagan was keeping Jaskier. If Dagan suspected that Aiden was working to infiltrate the auction, he might not even send his mage to portal them into the final location. All of their plans relied on them  _ getting _ there--if they didn’t, Jaskier was lost.

* * *

“What will you do with him if you find him?”

Yennefer’s voice made him pause in his quick packing. He didn’t look back at her. “I’ll figure something out.”

“This isn’t something you can just figure out as you go, Geralt,” she said, “You can’t risk the Soldier getting loose.”

“He’s not the Soldier, he’s Jaskier.”

She shrugged, ceding the point. “Even if that’s true, you can’t risk someone like Dagan finding him again. He’s too deadly and too valuable to be forgotten.”

Geralt finally looked back at her long enough to growl, “So what should I do? Leave him to die? Or just kill him myself?”

“It would be better for him to be believed to be dead.” His eyes narrowed at her in warning, but she continued implacably, “The biggest issue regarding his recovery is the trigger words they’ve used--he won’t ever be truly free if they aren’t removed.”

“Is that possible?”

Yennefer hummed with an air of consideration. “It’s possible. It would take time.”

“Can you do it? Given the time?” he asked, not quite able to hide the desperate hope lurking in each word.

For a long moment, they stared at each other. Once upon a time Geralt had believed himself to be in love with her, bound as they were by the wish he’d made in the heat of a moment. He’d thought himself to be cheating fate by finding a partner who was powerful enough and long lived enough to be his partner for the rest of his days. Instead, his world had fallen apart the day Jaskier had slipped through his fingers.

“Bring the bard to Kaer Morhen. Perhaps there is a way to undo this curse.”

* * *

A shoulder brushed against his, startling him from his spiraling thoughts, and Geralt looked up to find Aiden’s carefully blank face. “Easy there, Wolf. This will work,” he murmured quietly enough that Lambert wouldn’t hear it over his bitching.

Geralt managed a short nod.

The sound of a portal opening nearly made him weak kneed with relief. They looked up to watch the ring of magic and power open to reveal a mage he didn’t recognize. Dagan must have made good use of Stregobor’s connections to recruit mages to serve him. That, or he’d filched enough money from Stregobor’s coffers. 

“Only a little longer,” Lambert breathed. 

Geralt clenched his jaw and breathed through the rage flooding his system. His hand dropped casually to the belt buckle Yennefer had handed to him before they’d left--their only way out of the auction should they need a quick escape.

The mage waved them forward with an impatient hand and Aiden sauntered over easily. “Invitation?”

Aiden presented the piece of parchment and managed to look bored while his eyes continued to scan the area around them for threats. Lambert shot Geralt a look to remind him of what their job was while Aiden got them inside the auction.  _ Look strong and growl whenever someone tries to speak to you. _ Simple.

So he waited and swallowed down the hate burning in his veins. He kept his expression blank and bored enough to mimic the merchant guards he’d seen in cities around the Continent. The shirt was tight enough that it didn’t take much effort to emphasize the muscles bulging beneath it. Aiden shot him an amused look when the young mage’s eyes lingered on Geralt’s chest.

“H--have you any weapons?” the man squeaked.

Aiden stepped forward with a charming smile. “Only those that were allowed in the invitation.”

“The fortress is charmed to ensure this. Anyone who is found to be breaking the rules will be immediately ejected from the auction.”

Geralt’s growl at the mention of the auction was overlapped by Aiden speaking again, “Then we will endeavor not to meet your master’s displeasure.”

The mage gave them another look before shrugging and gesturing back at the portal. “So be it. Let’s go.”

Without looking back, the mage stepped through the gateway and into the space beyond. Geralt didn’t bother to wait to see if Aiden and Lambert followed before he hurried after him. 

He was going to find his bard.

The world spun in a familiar haze of magic and bright power. It made his stomach churn painfully and his vision spin, but he forced himself to concentrate on the ground beneath his feet until it passed. As soon as he could, he opened his eyes and stared hungrily at the world around him.

Wind whipped through the hairs cut short by Tanis and helped breathe fresh air into his lungs. The scent of mountain snows and frigid air made him shudder violently--caught between the memory of the dragon hunt and the reality of what he would face now. He squinted against bright light, reflecting wildly against distant snows, and fought the urge to scream out into the open air when he recognized where they’d been taken.

Cairgorn. The mountain where he’d first lost Jaskier.

His eyes burned and he stared up at the ceiling in an effort to bring his wild emotions back under control. It made a terrible sort of sense that Dagan would bring Jaskier back here. He thought of Yennefer’s careful little maps and the circle that had marked where Dagan’s workshop had once been. The workshop where his original research had been conducted and all the testing they’d managed before partnering with Stregobor. No doubt their cells had been designed with enhanced strength in mind.

It meant that they’d dragged Jaskier’s body only a short distance the day Geralt had lost him. The Reavers must have seen an opportunity to get their revenge on the Witcher who’d embarrassed them during the hunt. A broken, injured bard had paid the price for Geralt’s pride and distraction with Yennefer. 

A bard whose only mistake had been trusting that Geralt would save him.

“Guard!” Aiden’s sharp command made him turn stiffly back to find the group watching him curiously. “Return to your post.”

Walking stiffly, Geralt forced himself forward to Lambert’s side. The other Witcher gave him a worried look, but he refused to acknowledge it. There were no words he could manage to answer the question in his brother’s eyes so he didn’t bother. 

The nervous little mage jumped when Aiden stepped up beside him with an imperious gesture. “We haven’t got all day. The auction is due to start any minute now. My benefactors will have my head if I don’t win this prize.”

Geralt gave Lambert a gimlet stare, but the other Wolf only shrugged and followed after the two men into the hallway and the massive chamber beyond.

Once the shadows of the mountain fell in around them, the noise of many voices could be heard over the howl of the wind outside. They echoed oddly around the craggy ceiling dotted with stalagmites and rough hewn rock. Liquid dripped cold and unwelcome from each and painted the walls in gleaming lines. Along one wall, the winds of the mountain were free to whip through the space courtesy of the balcony there. Candelabras and torches had been lit in every alcove and along the walls until the space danced with shadow and flames.

And there among them were the men and women who sought the Soldier.

Each of the high houses and guilds were represented in glittering silks and gems as though they were attending some ball or festival. In their midst were sharp eyed mercenaries and schemers, just as eager for a chance at upsetting the powers that be as they were to gain the Soldier for themselves. More than a few seemed to be eyeing their opponents for the excuse they would need to release the violence lingering in the air.

“You’re the last of the arrivals,” the mage said, “Hurry now to take your place before they get started.”

The three Witchers quickened their steps until they were in the thick of the milling group. Their mage quickly hurried over to a few of his fellows standing around by the outer walls. Judging from their nerves, they were not excited at the prospect of potentially being between these people of power and their exit. The fact that they had not left meant they’d been paid enough to make the reward worth the risk.

Geralt looked around impatiently. “I don’t see Dagan...or Jaskier.”

“They won’t have him out where anyone could see him,” Aiden muttered, “They’ll want to put on a show.”

“That fucker needs to die, and fast,” Lambert grumbled. “The whole lot of them aren’t any better than the creatures we hunt.”

Geralt was saved from answering when a low tone echoed through the chamber. The room quieted, eyes scanning for the source.

A lone figure made his way from one of the doorways and out into the open space of the balcony. The space had remained clear thanks to the icy cold of the mountain beyond and Geralt spared a sour thought that he hoped the cold sank into his bones until he felt like he could shatter at a touch. A dias had been erected there to make it easier for him to be seen over the heads of the crowd and Geralt didn’t need to see the man’s face to recognize him. 

Dagan smirked out at the crowd of people who had gathered with eager anticipation. “Welcome,” he said, “I’m glad to see so many of you chose to answer my invitation for an opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Over the last decade, my research has been focused on reshaping the world around using a more..direct method.” There was soft laughter around the room and Geralt released a subvocal growl at the thought of the cruelty disguised beneath. “We are standing on the cusp of a new era of power on the Continent. An era where aspiring men and women can rewrite history with a single command.”

He paused, staring out at the small group of mercenaries and political schemers. “Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos--I intend to give you the tool to ensure the odds always fall on your side.”

The room fell silent, eager to see the creature of legend and whispered conversations in the dark of night. 

“Soldier,” Dagan called out with a gesture to the side.

A moment later the crowd around Geralt shifted nervously as a figure dressed in the iconic black and silver armor walked into view. The black mask that had covered his face in their first battle had returned, leaving only icy eyes glaring balefully ahead of him. His footsteps were utterly silent, eyes fixed on where Dagan was standing with a flat stare. There was no hesitation, no interest in the group of people hoping to  _ buy _ him like he was cattle.

Aiden’s hand reached out with bruising force before Geralt even realized he’d started forward. His lungs drug in air greedily without feeling any relief. He couldn’t smell the meadow grass and wood oil scent of the bard from this distance--it felt like an awful omen of what was to come. He couldn’t see the blue of his eyes or the smile that lingered at the corners of his mouth when he saw Geralt looking back at him.

Instead, the Soldier stalked across the space like an animal waiting for an excuse to pounce. A short sword was strapped between his shoulder blades and Geralt caught sight of at least three other knives strapped to his arms and legs. The silver metal armor along his left arm glinted under the candlelight with macabre intent. He stopped at Dagan side, staring out at the collected group and falling into an easy parade rest.

“How can we be sure he’ll be loyal to us?” A woman in a tight leather dress with a slit that showed off the knife strapped to her thigh. “It could just as easily turn on us when we turned our backs on it.”

“Whoever wins the auction will be given a series of words that will keep the Soldier completely complacent to whatever your needs are. It will know nothing but how to be obedient to your commands.”

“My creation,” Dagan purred, “will change warfare and politics forever. It is the perfect soldier. It does not ask questions. It never tires. It does not feel pain. It will not stop until it’s mission is complete.” He stared at Jaskier with a sickening grin. “All that matters is the target and ensuring that it is destroyed.”

Lambert cursed under his breath softly, staring at Jaskier. “That’s...the bard?”

“How did they do this?” Aiden asked with something close to horror. “It should be impossible.”

Someone else in the crowd seemed to agree. “How is this monstrosity possible?” they called.

“This is but the first of many great creatures, built to usher in a new history of power in the world of mankind. No longer will we be left to hope for the protection of Witchers and kings. No longer will you be forced to hope for the armies you need to bring your enemies low.” Each word dripped with the same fanatical belief of a convert before their new god. “Soon, my soldiers will become the weapon with which you strike down all who would dare to cross you.”

Silence fell as each person stared at the silent figure waiting at Dagan’s side. Then, like wildfire, each person erupted with more questions and exclamations of what might happen with this sort of power.

Geralt felt sick.

Dagan’s voice cut through the sounds of excited conversation around the room. “We’ll start the bidding at 100,000 gold pieces.”

Immediately voices rang out all around the room and Geralt turned to Aiden and Lambert with mounting fear for what would happen if things went wrong now. “We need to get him now--before we need to fight with whoever buys the Soldier too,” he said quickly, “Lambert, I need you to find Nora and bring her back here to rendezvous with Yennefer when she opens the portal for us. I don’t see her anywhere so she’s probably wherever they’ve been keeping Jaskier.”

Lambert nodded and disappeared in the crowd without any further questions. 

Aiden eyed the crowd speculatively. “I know you’re a badass, but I don’t think the two of us will be able to take everyone in here.”

“We need a distraction,” Geralt agreed.

“Hmm,” the Cat hummed under his breath before a slow smile grew at his lips. “I think I can help you out there.”

On the stage, Dagan was still gleefully fielding bids from all corners of the room. The numbers were reaching higher than even the ridiculous amount of gold they’d gathered between the Witchers and Yennefer’s resources. 

And through it all, the Soldier remained unmoving, unflinching.

Seeing him there, without cuffs or rope to keep him in place felt like shards of glass digging beneath his skin. Geralt forced himself to look back at Aiden. “What are you going to do?”

“Oh, just start a turf war between two of the families here,” he said with a wicked grin. 

He blinked at the Cat and had to force himself into motion when the other Witcher turned with purpose to a group of soldiers that looked more than ready to shed blood. If Aiden was going to start a fight, Geralt needed to be as close to Jaskier as possible. Which meant making his way to the stage without Dagan noticing him

Easier said than done.

Still, he managed to skirt through the worst of the crowd using their focus on the bidding to his advantage. Twice he was clipped by wildly gesturing arms belonging to various groups fighting for the right to win the right to use the Soldier for their own needs. He tried not to think about how high the bids were becoming or how eager each of the representatives were. If he could, he would slit all their throats for the part they were playing in the subjugation of another--let alone Jaskier--but he would settle from getting far, far away from this place with Jaskier and Nora safe and his friends uninjured.

He was painfully close to Jaskier now. Close enough that the urge to call out to him was bone deep  _ need _ . Close enough that he could see the way the Soldier’s eye continued to flick between each of the bidders, hinting at some sort of understanding about what was happening around him. The sound of humming, low and rough, made him want to creep closer to see if there was some sign of the bard lurking beneath the soldier. It was unfamiliar enough that it could have been from any of the people around him, but the hope remained.

Geralt paused in the shadows of the small raised platform and eyed the group of bidders for some sign of Aiden or the distraction he seemed so confident he could create. He spotted Dagan’s mage hovering near the doors leading away from the main area with his eyes scanning the crowd. Ducking behind a heavy set man wearing the blue and green of the Merchant’s Guild, Geralt tried to focus on the sight of Jaskier standing only a few yards away. Then,

“ _ Motherfucker _ !”

Everyone in the room looked to the right in time to see a small, spry looking woman leap across the room using a bigger man as a springboard so she could wrap her legs around the neck of a tall, scarred man. She didn’t bother to go for the knife she must be carrying, just hurled him bodily to the ground and punched him bodily in the jaw. 

The sound seemed to trigger the people around her to move and the room dissolved into chaos.

Dagan took a confused step forward, jerking out a hand like he could stop the spread of chaos moving through the room with a gesture. Fear flickered in his eyes when someone who looked eerily similar to Aiden howled a challenge and knocked a candelabra free from the wall to use as a weapon against a man in a feathered hat. He turned back to the Soldier standing by his side, mouth opening to form the first of the words needed to force the man to heel.

Geralt rushed forward, pulling his knife free and using the pommel to knock a man rushing by unconscious. 

But Dagan was already gone.

As soon as the crowd began to surrender to their violent urges, the Soldier moved protectively in front of his creator. He reached out for Dagan’s arm and dragged the smaller man back in the direction of the door where they’d both appeared. It was set into the wall in a way that made it difficult to see from the main area and Geralt hoped that would be enough to ensure that they wouldn’t be followed. The last thing they needed was more people trying to steal the Soldier away.

Geralt caught the door with one shoulder and risked glancing back to find the room awash in violence. A few of the mages had already begun to open portals back to where they’d picked up their respective parties so they could make quick escapes. Rivals and enemies used the violence as an excuse to turn on one another while several others backed away from the fighting entirely, their eyes scanning for the prize that had drawn them there.

Grimly, Geralt pushed open the door with his shoulder and slammed it closed behind him, losing a few more precious moments to find the crossbolt and ensure no one would follow him. Ahead, he could make out the sound of footsteps and Dagan’s sharp voice. He pulled his knife free and ran forward as quietly as he could--ready to end this as quickly as possible.

The shadows of the dimly lit corridor slowly went grey with the weak light trickling in through the narrow windows cut into the mountainside, allowing him to move faster. It looked like they were running through a makeshift dormitory and workspace judging from the scattered furniture. The scent of drying herbs and half-finished potions was familiar enough that he didn’t bother to investigate further. He gambled that most of Dagan’s men would be out battling the crowd or fleeing instead of protecting their employer.

“--a disaster!” Dagan’s voice cut through the rooms easily and Geralt slowed to a silent prowl as he approached, “I told you to protect me--not run off in the middle of the auction!”

Geralt turned a corner and barely stifled a noise when he finally saw Dagan and Jaskier standing in the center of the room. There was a table covered in chains and dark stains that dominated most of the space along with a desk covered in various journals and parchment. It didn’t take much effort to guess what nightmares had been created here.

The Soldier remained silent behind his mask, returning his hands behind his back now that there were no other threats.

Dagan continued to pace around the space with open fury. “You’ve ruined  _ everything _ !” he snarled and reached out almost casually to backhand the silent man. “You stupid, worthless waste of--”

Geralt didn’t wait for Dagan to finish. A black fury rose in him at the sight of Jaskier being struck once more by the man responsible for destroying everything good and kind in the bard. His knife was a familiar weight in his palm and he pulled his arm back as he lunged forward ready to throw--

But the Soldier was already moving.

Scarred hands still hidden beneath the silver armor that marked him as the assassin the world had learned to fear reached out to grab Dagan by the neck. The man had time to squeak once in panic before the Soldier grabbed the small belt knife tied to the man’s waist. Dagan’s hands scrabbled frantically at the Soldier’s arm as he lifted him bodily off the ground.

The knife flashed once in the torchlight before it sank deep into Dagan’s gut.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left.
> 
> Let me know if you guys are still interested in an Infinity War continuation in the comments. If I continue the story, I'm definitely fully ignoring End Game because it is THE WORST. Infinity War obviously has lots of potential for angst. >;P


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it you guys--the finale. Thank you all for sticking with me through this adventure in angst and random updates. Your comments, kudos, and support continue to blow me away.
> 
> This one is for you.

Geralt had seen this moment for so long it almost felt like a dream.

A dream where Jaskier stood alive and well in front of him. One where Geralt could be sure they were safe because the men who’d stolen everything from them were dead. He should have known better, but the fear and fury that had been drowning him for days was suddenly lifted and he was left trembling in its wake. It made him vulnerable.

The Soldier was unbothered by the present of another as Dagan choked in his arms. Dagan thrashed weakly, trying to keep himself from choking while also trying to push the threat away. It did little good. The Soldier only twisted the knife until the smaller man screamed in agony.

“ _ A--Ard _ ,” Dagan gasped, struggling for the words that had gained him control over Jaskier at the tavern.

Geralt started forward in alarm, but the Soldier merely tilted his head like a raptor sighting prey. “It won’t work,” he said in a flat voice.

Dagan’s eyes widened but he still gasped out the next trigger word like it would stop the flow of blood dripping onto the floor, “ _ Bleidd _ .”

Without hesitation, the Soldier pulled the knife free from Dagan’s stomach and sank it deep into the space between his neck and shoulder. Blood bubbled up from the injury and wide, shocked eyes locked on the assassin. The Soldier watched him for a moment longer before releasing his grip.

Dagan hit the floor with a thud, gasped wetly once, and went still.

The Witcher stared at the source of Jaskier’s misery for a beat longer, wondering if he should feel relieved that the man was dead or angry that his suffering would never balance what he’d done to Jaskier. Revenge had been his companion for so long that he felt nearly bereft without it. The knowledge that things would end here tonight felt heady and ill fitting--like a borrowed piece of armor.

Slowly, the Soldier turned away from Dagan like he’d been waiting to be sure the man was dead before acknowledging Geralt. His face was blank beneath the spray of blood, eyes calculating.

Any hope that Jaskier had been the one to kill Dagan died a quick death.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t have to be you that found me here.”

Geralt resisted the urge to flinch at the flat voice. “Why?”

They watched each other with equal levels of wariness--like they knew how much was at stake now. He searched the Soldier’s eyes for some hint of the bard lurking beneath and felt the chill of a new fear spread like frost beneath his skin.

“It will be harder for you to do what needs to be done. The others wouldn’t have hesitated,” the Soldier cocked his head slightly as though considering, “The mage might have enjoyed it.”

Geralt sucked in a furious breath that tasted like blood and anguish. “You think I’m going to  _ kill _ you?”

“You must.” The Soldier’s voice remained impartial, uninterested almost, like they were discussing the weather. “It’s the only way this ends.”

“You’ve already ended it,” Geralt argued back, “Stregobor and Dagan are dead now. They can’t hurt you again.”

“There’s nothing more to hurt.”

“Jaskier--” he began, but the Soldier shook his head roughly.

“Jaskier is gone.”

The words sank like knives into his skin and Geralt found himself backing away like he could avoid the truth bodily. The urge to scream fought with the pull of the instinct to continue fighting this reality like it was its own monster. His hands found his sword hilt and just as quickly released it, unwilling to hurt the Soldier even now.

He shook his head again. “He can come back.  _ You _ can come back, Jaskier.”

The Soldier watched him with something close to sympathy. “There is always a price to pay, Witcher. You know this.”

“Jaskier has paid more than enough.”

“He was too easy to manipulate,” the Soldier said, “It was too easy to use his weaknesses against him.”

“What weakness?”

“The girl. You. All of you were targets.”

Geralt growed and stepped forward almost aggressively. “Let him go. Bring Jaskier back to me. It’s over now.”

The Soldier looked down at his blood stained hands and pressed his lips together in a firm line. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you  _ can’t _ ?” Geralt demanded.

“He’s gone.”

“He--he can’t just  _ be gone _ !” Outside, he could faintly hear the sound of someone calling his name, but he couldn’t seem to look away from the face that was so familiar and so foreign at once. “Dagan and Stregobor are  _ dead _ \--their magic can’t work any longer! They can’t order you to be the Soldier any more.”

“I’m sorry, Witcher. It was the only way.”

The sound of remorse in that strange voice made Geralt stumble, moving forward blindly until his fingers touched bloodied fabric. He grasped it blindly, breathing deep to find the traces of Jaskier’s scent beneath the gore and feeling his panic worsen when he failed. The Soldier allowed the movement without flinching, blue eyes focusing on something distant.

“Jaskier…” he said again, but only the Soldier responded.

Cold steel pressed itself into Geralt’s hand and the Witcher looked up in surprise to find that terribly blank expression back on the Soldier’s face. “You have to end this here,” he repeated. “I am ready to comply.”

Understanding made Geralt want to vomit. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“You kill monsters. I am no better than a bruxa or striga--I have killed more than many of them manage.” Again, each word was as bland as someone describing the drying of paint or the way grass grows.

“You’re not a monster. You--you’re a victim.”

The Soldier didn’t look convinced by Geralt’s refusal. “I am whatever my master orders me to be.”

“They weren’t your master,” Geralt growled with venom. “They’re dead now anyway--they can’t try to force you to hurt someone again.”

There was a thump outside in the hallway, followed by another shout. Neither of them looked away.

“All of those people out there want the Soldier for their own purposes, Witcher--” Something close to sympathy bled into those blue eyes. “--As long as I am alive, that won’t change.”

“I can keep you safe.”

“You are not immortal.” The Soldier stared at him with painful understanding, “It’s best for everyone for me to die while the bard is safely locked away inside his own mind. I can bear the pain more effectively than he could.”

Again, the knife was pressed into Geralt’s hand, but the Witcher shook his head fiercely. He gripped the handle long enough to hurl it against the far wall with a clatter.

“No,” Geralt snarled, shaking his head. “ _ No _ .”

“It’s the only way this ends.”

“No!” Geralt shouted, falling to his knees in front of the Soldier. “I can’t lose him…”

The Soldier went silent.

“Please, Jaskier,” he breathed, “please don’t do this. Don’t give up.”

There was no sound from the too-still man above him except for the soft rhythm of his breathing. Instead of comfort, the sound only brought a growing sense of loss. As though his mind were preparing him for the loss of Jaskier despite the fact that his body remained behind like a living specter.

Maybe the Soldier was right. Maybe it would have been kinder for Aiden or Lambert to discover what Jaskier had sacrificed to destroy Dagan and to keep Nora safe.

Maybe he could have accepted that Jaskier was truly dead then.

Instead, he thought about Posada. 

He closed his eyes and conjured up the image of a young man walking up to him with excitement and adventure in his eyes. He thought of the strange sort of confusion he’d felt when the bard had fought back against their attackers and even tried to keep them from harming the same Witcher who’d done nothing but mock him. He could picture the way Jaskier had smiled at him, exhausted and elated in equal parts, when they’d walked free from Filavandriel’s makeshift fortress with a lute clutched tightly in one hand.

Then it was a matter of slowly beginning to understand that Jaskier had no intention of ever walking away. No matter how many times Geralt growled and snapped at him, he remained steadfast. It was Jaskier who waited for him late into the night after a hunt to piece together broken skin and jagged regrets. Who dared to see beyond the rumors and urban legends to discover the scarred reality lurking beneath.

It was better than any Witcher could ever hope for--better than Geralt deserved. 

The thought of being the one to rob the world of such painful bravery made him tremble. He’d done so many wretched, awful things in his lifetime in the name of the greater good. Not this, he begged silent gods, not this.

His fingers found anchors in the bloodied, stiff material of the Soldier’s armor--uncaring of his position on his knees before him. Desperation left him without options--there was no villain to fight now or monster to defeat. Only a bard and his witcher. 

If Jaskier chose to kill him, so be it. At least Geralt would meet his end knowing he had fought for this rare piece of true happiness.

“ _ When a humble bard _ …” His voice was thick with emotion, rough from years of using it for nothing more than grunts and gruff statements, but it would have to be enough. It  _ would _ be enough. “-- _ Graced to ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this...song-- _ ”

The words were familiar, even after all this time, and still tasted of the gleeful excitement of a young bardling fresh from an adventure.

He licked his lips and forced himself to continue when the silence above him went stiff with surprise. “ _ From when the White Wolf fought, a silver tongued devil, his army of elves, at his hooves did they revel-- _ ”

The Soldier’s breath stuttered in his chest in surprise at the long-familiar lyrics that had been sung in taverns all around the Continent. Geralt’s voice could hardly do justice to the soaring vocals of his bard, but he forced himself to continue past the painful memories and flickering embers of hope.

“ _ They came after me with masterful deceit, broke down my lute and they kicked in my teeth-- _ ” A soft exhalation stirred the hairs at the top of Geralt’s head and he forced himself to look up into a face that had haunted his every waking moment for decades, “ _ \--While the devil’s horns minced our tender meat, so cried the Witcher, “He can’t be bleat!” _ ”

Fingers pressed beneath Geralt’s chin, tilting him up to meet blue eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Geralt smiled.

* * *

**Epilogue** :

Jaskier came awake to the sensation of cloth against bare skin and the sound of another person’s breath.

For a moment, he could barely breathe through the panic. Images of Dagan’s mocking smile and Stregobor’s hands reaching out for his skull made him want to throw himself away from the heartbeat thudding in his ears. They clung like spiderwebs to his skin, leaving a mixture of fear and revulsion in their wake. He shuddered hard, hands clenching into fists and his mind reaching out toward the still, quiet presence at the back of his mind like a safety net.

Then he sucked in a breath that filled his lungs with the scent of leather and sweat and some deeper fragrance that made something deep within him relax. The man behind him rumbled deep in his chest and tightened his hold around Jaskier’s waist until he was fully pressed into the curve of his body. 

“Go back to sleep,” a deep voice rumbled.

Jaskier huffed out a breath, grateful for the opportunity to school his features into something less broken. “Are all Witchers this lazy?”

Geralt growled, but didn’t release his hold. His nose brushed along the hair at the base of Jaskier’s neck, making him shiver.

“Ciri will wonder where we are.”

“Let her,” Geralt said stubbornly, “She can go pester Lambert.”

Humming under his breath, Jaskier gave into temptation and rolled so he could rest his head against Geralt’s chest. The familiar slow thud of a powerful heart felt like a lullaby against the memories of Stregobor’s darkness. 

He blinked up at the edge of Geralt’s jaw, roughened by stubble and traced the spray of pale eyelashes with his eyes. It still didn’t feel real. 

Some nights it still felt like too much of a risk to let his eyes close and chance waking up to find himself strapped to the table. On those nights he preferred to slip out of bed to stand on the balcony in the frigid night air, staring up at the glittering stars above him. He would suck in deep lungfuls of air in an effort to erase the emptiness in his mind and the growing fear that this was all just another fever dream.

Sometimes Geralt would join him, wrapping a thick blanket around his shoulders and surrounding him with the familiar scent of the Witcher. He would lean against the balcony and let a comfortable silence settle while they let their thoughts wander. On nights when Jaskier’s hands were tense and stiff on the lip of the railing--like he needed it to ground him--Geralt would talk.

A year ago, the thought of  _ Geralt _ being the more talkative of the two of them would have made Jaskier laugh himself hoarse. Now that rumbling voice felt like a lifeline when he was sinking beneath the waves.

Geralt told him about what it was like when they’d met Posada and in the months that followed. He told Jaskier about what it was like to have someone to return to and how often that had been enough to keep him going when it would have been easier to lay down and quit. He recounted memories of the two of them that Jaskier had lost and occasionally shared pieces of his life before meeting the bard.

Over and over again, Geralt laid himself bare in order to give Jaskier the tools he needed to reclaim himself.

It was dizzying. Overwhelming. The memories of his life before were enough to ensure that Jaskier was aware of how much each bit of vulnerability must cost Geralt, but he wasn’t strong enough to resist asking for more. That, more than anything, convinced of the truth of the words Geralt pressed into his skin each night.

_ I love you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I love you. _

Other nights it was Geralt who reached out with bruising force to cling to Jaskier like he could physically drag him away from the memories where he’d slipped out of his hands. His jaw would grind until it ached to avoid screaming the name he’d shouted into the empty air the day Jaskier fell. Then it was Jaskier’s turn to cradle the other man close and whisper reassurances into his ear, humming meaningless tunes when he ran out of words.

“Hey--” Jaskier blinked and found Geralt frowning down at him, worry a familiar darkness in those golden eyes. “--I lost you for a moment there. Are you alright?”

He licked his lips, forcing himself away from dark thoughts, and smiled. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m okay.”

Geralt hummed, but didn’t press. Fingers that were still rough with sword callouses threaded through dark hair that was still longer that Jaskier usually tolerated. The discomfort was worth it against the thrum of pleasure that came from each stroking caress. 

The Witcher leaned forward and brushed a kiss over Jaskier’s forehead. 

Soon they would have to leave the warm cocoon they’d created in Geralt’s sprawling suite at Kaer Morhen. Ciri would be wanting another lesson from her favorite Witcher. Lambert and Aiden would knock on the door until it rattled in the frame and their teasing voices could be heard through the scarred wood. Sometimes it was Tanis or Nora who would come knocking, calling out about breakfast and needing Jaskier’s help to get the bread  _ just _ right.

It felt like a dream. Too fragile to survive in the light of day when men like Stregobor still roamed the earth. It made him want to cling to each moment like they would slip away if he ever relaxed.

Geralt’s fingers drifted down to where Jaskier’s were tangled in his shirt. “What kind of day is it?”

The question had become a code of sorts between the two of them. ‘Good’ meant he was under control of the two halves of his psyche, but on edge. Geralt dreaded the days when Jaskier could do nothing more than shake his head and sink deeper beneath the safety of the blankets. ‘Functioning’ was the Soldier’s way of announcing his presence though he rarely appeared unless Jaskier was feeling threatened. The best days came when Jaskier could smile and say,

“Better.”

The Witcher’s smile was a beautiful thing. He was helpless to resist the urge to lean forward and brush his own lips against the curve of Geralt’s.

There was a loud thud against the door before a familiar voice called out. “Geralt! You promised you would show me how to throw knives today!”

Jaskier’s shoulders shook with smothered laughter when Lambert’s voice joined Ciri’s, “Yeah,  _ Geralt _ ! Come show us how to throw knii-iiives!”

“Only if you let me use you as a target,” Geralt muttered against the skin of Jaskier’s neck, making the other man giggle at Lambert’s affronted noise.

“Looks like you’re in high demand once more, Witcher.”

Geralt leaned back far enough to meet Jaskier’s eyes with a soft expression. “I’d rather stay here with you.”

Another thud outside made Jaskier flinch, then release another laugh.

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

“Mmm,” the Witcher hummed softly, ignoring the noise outside their room in favor of sliding the blankets up over their heads. “Maybe if we’re very quiet…”

“So we’ll just hide away in here for the rest of our lives?” Jaskier asked without censure.

The Witcher smiled crookedly, despite the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “Would you? Stay in here with me forever?”

Both of them knew he meant more than just sleeping away the morning.

It was easier than anything he’d ever done to reach out and close the distance between them. “Always, my love” he whispered against Geralt’s lips. “Always.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We deserve a soft epilogue, my loves.
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr @geraskierficrecs and stay tuned for an Infinity War spin off.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it. Let me know what you think in the comments! If tumblr is your thing, you can hang out with me @geraskierficrecs to chat about my stories or read some of the stories that I've enjoyed in this fandom.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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